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ANOTHER  SHEAF 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

WXAJl   RUBEIN,  »Bd  0»h»r  StoriM 

THE    ISLAND    PUAR18EE« 

THE  MAN    OP    PROPERTr 

THE   COUNTRY    HOUSE 

FRATERNITY 

THE    PATRICIAN 

THE   DARK    FLOWER 

THE   FREELAND3 

PEYOND 

FIVE  TALES 

A   COMMENTARY 

A   MOl'i.LY 

THE    INN   OF   TRANQriLUTY 

THii    LITTLE    MAN,    and  Olher  .s»iirM 

A   HHEAF 

ANOTHER  SUEAT 


plays:  first  series 

and  Sepit<nr»li/ 
THE   SILVER  BOX 
JOY 
STRIFE 

plays:   SECOND   SERIES 

and  SeparaUlit 

THE   ELDEST   SON 
THE    LITTLE    DREAU 

JUSTICE 

plays:  third  series 

and  Separat9l0 
THE   FUGITIVE 
THE    PIGEON 
THE   MOB 

A   BIT  o'  LOVE 


MOODS,    BONGS,    AND    DOGGBRBLS 
MEMORIES.      Iliiutrated 


ANOTHER  SHEAF 


BY 

JOHN   GALSWORTHY 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 

1919 


copthioht,  1919,  bt 
Crables  Scribner's  Sons 


Published  January,  1919 

COnriUGHT,  1S17,  BV  the  CROWELL  PUBUISHJNG  CO. 

COrVFIGHT,  19U,  BT  HARPER  &  BROTHERS 

COrVKIGHT,  I»18,  BV  THE  YALE  PUBLISHING  ASSN.,  INC. 


Tf^ 


iV'i 


TO 
MORLEY  ROBERTS 


CONTENTS 


PAGI 


The  Road 1 

The  Sacred  Work 4 

Balance  Sheet  of  the  Soldier-Workman    .     .  14 

Tee  Children's  Jewel  Fund 4(5 

France,  1916-1917 — An  Impression      ....  53 

Englishman  and  Russian 82 

American  and  Briton 8S 

Anglo-American  Drajia  and  Its  Future      ,  112 

Speculations 140 

The  Land,  1917 169 

The  Land,  1918 "  ....  205 

Grotesques 245 


THE  ROAD 

The  road  stretched  m  a  pale,  straight  streak, 
narrowing  to  a  mere  thread  at  the  Umit  of  vision 
— the  only  living  thing  in  the  wild  darkness.  All 
was  very  still.  It  had  been  raining;  the  wet 
heather  and  the  pines  gave  forth  scent,  and  little 
gusty  shivers  shook  the  dripping  birch  trees.  In 
the  pools  of  sky,  between  broken  clouds,  a  few 
stars  shone,  and  half  of  a  thin  moon  was  seen 
from  time  to  time,  like  the  fragment  of  a  silver 
horn  held  up  there  in  an  invisible  hand,  waiting 
to  be  blown. 

Hard  to  say  when  I  first  became  aware  that 
there  was  movement  on  the  road,  little  specks  of 
darkness  on  it  far  away,  till  its  end  was  blackened 
out  of  sight,  and  it  seemed  to  shorten  towards 
me.  Whatever  was  coming  darkened  it  as  an 
invading  army  of  ants  will  darken  a  streak  of  sun- 
light on  sand  strewn  with  pine  needles.  Slowly 
this  shadow  crept  along  till  it  had  covered  all  but 
the  last  dip  and  rise;  and  still  it  crept  forward  in 
that  eerie  way,  as  yet  too  far  off  for  sound. 

Then  began  the  voice  of  it  in  the  dripping  still- 
ness, a  tramping  of  wear>'  feet,  and  I  could  tell 
that  this  advancing  shadow  was  formed  of  men, 

1 


THE  ROAD 

millions  of  them  moving  all  at  one  speed,  very 
slowly,  as  if  regulated  by  the  march  of  the  most 
tii*ed  among  them.  They  had  blotted  out  the 
road,  now,  from  a  few  yards  away  to  the  horizon; 
and  suddenly,  in  the  dusk,  a  face  showed. 

Its  eyes  were  eager,  its  lips  parted,  as  if  each 
step  was  the  first  the  marcher  had  ever  taken; 
and  yet  he  was  stumbling,  almost  asleep  from 
tiredness.  A  young  man  he  was,  with  skin  drawn 
tight  over  his  heavy  cheek-bones  and  jaw,  under 
the  platter  of  his  helmet,  and  burdened  with  all 
his  soldier's  load.  At  first  I  saw  his  face  alone 
in  the  darkness,  startlingly  clear;  and  then  a  very 
sea  of  helmeted  faces,  with  their  sunken  eyes 
shining,  and  their  lips  parted.  Watching  them 
pass — hea\'^'  and  dim  and  spectre-like  in  the 
darkness,  those  eager  dead-beat  men — I  knew  as 
never  before  how  they  had  longed  for  this  last 
march,  and  in  fancy  seen  the  road,  and  dreamed 
of  the  day  when  they  would  be  trudging  home. 
Their  hearts  seemed  laid  bare  to  me,  the  sicken- 
ing hours  they  had  waited,  dreaming  and  longing, 
in  boots  rusty  with  blood.  And  the  night  was 
full  of  the  loneliness  and  waste  they  had  been 
through.  .  .  . 

Morning!  At  the  edge  of  the  town  the  road 
came  arrow-straight  to  the  first  houses  and  their 

2 


THE  ROAD 

gardens,  past  them,  and  away  to  the  streets.  In 
every  window  and  at  each  gate  children,  women, 
men,  were  looking  down  the  road.  Face  after 
face  was  painted,  various,  by  the  sunlight,  homely 
with  line  and  wrinkle,  curve  and  dimple,  pallid 
or  ruddy,  but  the  look  in  the  eyes  of  all  these 
faces  seemed  the  same.  "I  have  waited  so  long," 
it  said,  "I  cannot  wait  any  more — I  cannot!" 
Their  hands  were  clasped,  and  by  the  writhing  of 
those  hands  I  knew  how  they  had  yearned,  and 
the  madness  of  delight  waiting  to  leap  from  them 
— wives,  mothers,  fathers,  children,  the  patient 
hopers  against  hope. 

Fai-  out  on  the  road  something  darkened  the 
sunlight.     They  were  coming ! 


THE  SACRED  WORK 

The  Angel  of  Peace,  watching  the  slow  folding 
back  of  this  darkness,  will  look  on  an  earth  of 
cripples.  The  field  of  the  world  is  strewn  with 
half-living  men.  That  loveliness  which  is  the 
creation  of  the  aesthetic  human  spirit ;  that  flower- 
ing of  directed  energy  which  we  know  as  civilisa- 
tion; that  manifold  and  mutual  service  which  we 
call  progress — all  stand  mutilated  and  faltering. 
As  though,  on  a  pilgrimage  to  the  dreamed-of 
Mecca,  water  had  failed,  and  by  the  wayside 
countless  muffled  forms  sat  waiting  for  rain;  so 
will  the  long  road  of  mankind  look  to-morrow. 

In  every  township  and  village  of  our  countries 
men  stricken  by  the  war  will  dwell  for  the  next 
half-century.  The  figure  of  Youth  must  go  one- 
footed,  one-armed,  bhnd  of  an  eye,  lesioned  and 
stunned,  in  the  home  where  it  once  danced.  The 
half  of  a  generation  can  never  again  step  into 
the  sunlight  of  full  health  and  the  priceless 
freedom  of  unharmed  limbs. 

So  comes  the  sacred  work. 

Can  there  be  limit  to  the  effort  of  gratitude? 
Niggardliness  and  delay  in  restoring  all  of  life 

4 


THE  SACRED  WORK 

that  can  be  given  back  is  sin  against  the  human 
spirit,  a  smear  on  the  face  of  honour. 

Love  of  country,  which,  Hke  some  httle  secret 
lamp,  glows  in  every  heart,  hardly  to  be  seen  of 
our  eyes  when  the  world  is  at  peace — love  of  the 
old,  close  things,  the  sights,  sounds,  scents  we 
have  known  from  birth;  loyalty  to  our  fathers' 
deeds  and  our  fathers'  hopes;  the  clutch  of  Moth- 
erland— this  love  sent  our  soldiers  and  sailors 
forth  to  the  long  endurance,  to  the  doing  of  such 
deeds,  and  the  bearing  of  so  great  and  evil  pain 
as  can  never  be  told.  The  countries  for  which 
they  have  dared  and  suffered  have  now  to  play 
their  part. 

The  conscience  of  to-day  is  burdened  with  a 
load  well-nigh  unbearable.  Each  hour  of  the 
sacred  work  unloads  a  Uttle  of  this  burden. 

To  lift  up  the  man  who  has  been  stricken  on 
the  battlefield,  restore  him  to  the  utmost  of 
health  and  agility,  give  him  an  adequate  pension, 
and  re-equip  him  with  an  occupation  suited  to 
the  forces  left  him — that  is  a  process  which  does 
not  cease  till  the  sufferer  fronts  the  future  keen, 
hopeful,  and  secure.  And  such  restoration  is  at 
least  as  much  a  matter  of  spirit  as  of  body.  Con- 
sider what  it  means  to  fall  suddenly  out  of  full 
vigour  into  the  dark  certainty  that  you  can  never 
have  full   strength   again,   though  you  live  on 


THE  SACRED  WORK 

twenty,  forty,  sixty  years.  The  flag  of  your 
courage  may  well  be  down  half-mast !  Apathy — 
that  creeping  nerve  disease — is  soon  your  bed- 
fellow and  the  companion  of  your  walks.  A  cur- 
tain has  fallen  before  your  vision;  your  eyes 
no  longer  range.  The  Russian  "Nichevo" — the 
' '  what-does-it-matter  ? ' '  mood — besets  you.  Fate 
seems  to  say  to  you:  "Take  the  hne  of  least  re- 
sistance, friend — ^you  are  done  for!"  But  the 
sacred  work  says  to  Fate:  "Retro,  Satarias !  This 
our  comrade  is  not  your  puppet.  He  shall  yet 
live  as  happy  and  as  useful — if  not  as  active — a 
life  as  he  ever  lived  before.  You  shall  not  crush 
him!  We  shall  tend  him  from  clearing  station 
till  his  discharge  better  than  wounded  soldier  has 
ever  yet  been  tended.  In  special  hospitals,  ortho- 
paedic, paraplegic,  phthisic,  neurasthenic,  we  shall 
give  him  back  functional  ability,  soHdity  of  nerve 
or  lung.  The  flesh  torn  away,  the  lost  sight,  the 
broken  ear-drum,  the  destroyed  nerve,  it  is  true, 
we  cannot  give  back;  but  we  shall  so  re-create 
and  fortify  the  rest  of  him  that  he  shall  leave 
hospital  ready  for  a  new  career.  Then  we  shall 
teach  him  how  to  tread  the  road  of  it,  so  that  he 
fits  again  into  the  national  life,  becomes  once 
more  a  workman  with  pride  in  his  work,  a  stake 
in  the  country,  and  the  consciousness  that,  handi- 
capped though  he  be,  he  runs  the  race  level  with 

6 


THE  SACRED  WORK 

his  fellows,  and  is  by  that  so  much  the  better  man 
than  they.  And  beneath  the  feet  of  this  new- 
workman  we  shall  put  the  firm  plank  of  a  pen- 
sion.'* 

The  sacred  work  fights  the  creeping  dejections 
which  he  in  wait  for  each  soul  and  body,  for  the 
moment  stricken  and  thrown.  It  says  to  Fate: 
"You  shall  not  pass!" 

And  the  greatest  obstacle  with  which  it  meets 
is  the  very  stoicism  and  nonchalance  of  the  suf- 
ferer !  To  the  Anglo-Saxon,  especially,  those  pre- 
cious quahties  are  dangerous.  That  horse,  taken 
to  the  water,  will  too  seldom  drink.  Indifference 
to  the  future  has  a  certain  loveability,  but  is 
hardly  a  virtue  when  it  makes  of  its  owner  a 
weary  drone,  eking  out  a  pension  with  odd  jobs. 
The  sacred  work  is  vitally  concerned  to  defeat 
this  hand-to-mouth  philosophy.  Side  by  side  in 
man,  and  especially  in  Anglo-Saxon,  there  Uve 
two  creatures.  One  of  them  lies  on  his  back  and 
smokes;  the  other  runs  a  race;  now  one,  now  the 
other,  seems  to  be  the  whole  man.  The  sacred 
work  has  for  its  end  to  keep  the  runner  on  his 
feet;  to  proclaim  the  nobility  of  running.  A  man 
will  do  for  mankind  or  for  his  countr}'  what  he 
will  not  do  for  himself;  but  mankind  marches  on, 
and  countries  live  and  grow,  and  need  our  ser- 
vices in  peace  no  less  than  in  war.     Drums  do 

7 


THE  SACRED  WORK 

not  beat,  the  flags  haiig  furled,  in  time  of  peace; 
but  a  quiet  music  is  ever  raising  its  call  to  service. 
He  who  in  war  has  flung  himself,  without  thought 
of  self,  on  the  bayonet  and  braved  a  hail  of  bullets 
often  does  not  hear  that  quiet  music.  It  is  the 
business  of  the  sacred  work  to  quicken  his  ear  to 
it.  Of  little  use  to  man  or  nation  would  be  the 
mere  patching-up  of  bodies,  so  that,  like  a  row  of 
old  gossips  against  a  sunlit  wall,  our  disabled 
might  sit  and  weary  out  their  days.  If  that  were 
all  we  could  do  for  them,  gratitude  is  proven 
fraudulent;  device  bankrupt;  and  the  future  of 
our  countries  must  drag  with  a  lame  foot. 

To  one  who  has  watched,  rather  from  outside, 
it  seems  that  restoration  worthy  of  that  word  will 
only  come  if  the  minds  of  all  engaged  in  the  sacred 
work  are  always  fixed  on  this  central  truth :  "  Body 
and  spirit  are  inextricably  conjoined;  to  heal  the 
one  without  the  other  is  impossible."  If  a  man's 
mind,  courage  and  interest  be  enlisted  in  the 
cause  of  his  own  salvation,  healing  goes  on  apace, 
the  sufferer  is  remade.  If  not,  no  mere  surgical 
wonders,  no  careful  nursing,  will  avail  to  make  a 
man  of  him  again.  Therefore  I  would  say: 
"  From  the  moment  he  enters  hospital,  look  after 
his  mind  and  his  will;  give  them  food;  nourish 
them  in  subtle  ways,  increase  that  nourishment 
as  his  strength  increases.    Give  him  interest  in 

8 


THE  SACRED  WORK 

his  future;  light  a  star  for  him  to  fix  his  eyes  on. 
So  that,  when  he  steps  out  of  hospital,  you  shall 
not  have  to  begin  to  train  one  who  for  months, 
perhaps  years,  has  been  living,  mindless  and  will- 
less,  the  Hfe  of  a  half-dead  creature." 

That  this  is  a  hard  task  none  who  knows  hospi- 
tal life  can  doubt. 

That  it  needs  special  qualities  and  special  effort 
quite  other  than  the  average  range  of  hospital  de- 
votion is  obvious.  But  it  saves  time  in  the  end, 
and  without  it  success  is  more  than  doubtful. 
The  crucial  period  is  the  time  spent  in  hospital; 
use  that  period  to  re-create  not  only  body,  but 
mind  and  will-power,  and  all  shall  come  out  right; 
neglect  to  use  it  thus,  and  the  heart  of  many  a 
sufferer,  and  of  many  a  would-be  healer,  will 
break  from  sheer  discouragement. 

The  sacred  work  is  not  departmental;  it  is  one 
long  organic  process  from  the  moment  when  a 
man  is  picked  up  from  the  field  of  battle  to  the 
moment  when  he  is  restored  to  the  ranks  of  full 
civil  life.  Our  eyes  must  not  be  fixed  merely  on 
this  stressful  present,  but  on  the  world  as  it  will 
be  ten  years  hence.  I  see  that  world  gazing  back, 
Hke  a  repentant  drunkard  at  his  own  debauch, 
with  a  sort  of  horrified  amazement  and  disgust. 
I  see  it  impatient  of  any  reminiscence  of  this  hur- 
ricane; hastening  desperately  to  recover  what  it 

9 


THE  SACRED  WORK 

enjoyed  before  life  was  wrecked  and  pillaged  by 
these  blasts  of  death.  Hearts,  which  now  swell 
with  pity  and  gratitude  when  our  maimed  soldiers 
pass  the  streets,  will,  from  sheer  familiarity,  and 
through  natural  shrinking  from  reminder,  be  dried 
to  a  stony  indifference.  "  Let  the  dead  past  bury 
its  dead"  is  a  saying  terribly  true,  and  perhaps 
essential  to  the  preservation  of  mankind.  The 
world  of  ten  years  hence  will  shrug  its  shoulders 
if  it  sees  maimed  and  useless  men  crawling  the 
streets  of  its  day,  like  winter  flies  on  a  window- 
pane. 

It  is  for  the  sacred  work  to  see  that  there  shall 
be  no  winter  flies.  A  niche  of  usefulness  and  self- 
respect  exists  for  every  man,  however  handi- 
capped; but  that  niche  must  be  found  for  him. 
To  carry  the  process  of  restoration  to  a  point 
short  of  this  is  to  leave  the  cathedral  without 
spire. 

Of  the  men  and  women  who  have  this  work  in 
hand  I  have  seen  enough — in  France  and  in  my 
own  country,  at  least — to  know  their  worth,  and 
the  selfless  idealism  which  animates  them.  Their 
devotion,  courage,  tenacity,  and  technical  ability 
are  beyond  question  or  praise.  I  would  only  fear 
that  in  the  hard  struggle  they  experience  to  carry 
each  day's  work  to  its  end,  to  perfect  their  own 
particular  jobs,  all  so  important  and  so  difficult, 

10 


THE  SACRED  WORK 

vision  of  the  whole  fabric  they  are  helping  to  raise 
must  often  be  obscured.  And  I  would  venture  to 
say:  "Only  by  looking  upon  each  separate  dis- 
abled soldier  as  the  complete  fabric  can  you  possi- 
bly keep  that  vision  before  your  eyes.  Only  by 
revivifying  in  each  separate  disabled  soldier  the 
will  to  live  can  you  save  him  from  the  fate  of 
merely  continuing  to  exist." 

There  are  wounded  men,  many,  whose  spirit  is 
such  that  they  will  march  in  front  of  any  effort 
made  for  their  recovery.  I  well  remember  one  of 
these — a  Frenchman — nearly  paralysed  in  both 
legs.  All  day  long  he  would  work  at  his  "ma- 
crame,"  and  each  morning,  after  treatment,  would 
demand  to  try  and  stand.  I  can  see  his  straining 
efforts  now,  his  eyes  like  the  eyes  of  a  spirit;  I  can 
hear  his  daily  words:  "II  me  semble  que  fai  un 
peu  plus  de  force  dans  mes  jamhes  ce  matin,  Mon- 
sieur !"  though,  I  fear,  he  never  had.  Men  of 
such  indomitable  initiative,  though  not  rare,  are 
but  a  fraction.  The  great  majority  have  rather 
the  happy-go-lucky  soul.  For  them  it  is  only 
too  easy  to  postpone  self-help  till  sheer  necessity 
drives,  or  till  some  one  in  whom  they  believe  in- 
spires them.  The  work  of  re-equipping  these 
with  initiative,  with  a  new  interest  in  life,  with 
work  which  they  can  do,  is  one  of  infinite  difficulty 
and  complexity.    Nevertheless,  it  must  be  done. 

11 


THE  SACRED  WORK 

The  great  publics  of  our  countries  do  not  yet,  I 
think,  see  that  they  too  have  their  part  in  the 
sacred  work.  So  far  they  only  seem  to  feel: 
"Here's  a  wounded  hero;  let's  take  him  to  the 
movies,  and  give  him  tea!"  Instead  of  choking 
him  with  cheap  kindness  each  member  of  the 
public  should  seek  to  reinspire  the  disabled  man 
with  the  feeling  that  he  is  no  more  out  of  the 
main  stream  of  Hfe  than  they  are  themselves;  and 
each,  according  to  his  or  her  private  chances, 
should  help  him  to  find  that  special  niche  which 
he  can  best,  most  cheerfully,  and  most  us^ully 
fill  in  the  long  future. 

The  more  we  drown  the  disabled  in  tea  and  lip 
gratitude  the  more  we  unsteel  his  soul,  and  the 
harder  we  make  it  for  him  to  win  through,  when, 
in  the  years  to  come,  the  wells  of  our  tea  and 
gratitude  have  dried  up.  We  can  do  a  much 
more  real  and  helpful  thing.  I  fear  that  there 
will  soon  be  no  one  of  us  who  has  not  some  per- 
sonal friend  disabled.  Let  us  regard  that  man 
as  if  he  were  ourselves;  let  us  treat  him  as  one 
who  demands  a  full  place  in  the  ranks  of  working 
life,  and  try  to  find  it  for  him. 

In  such  ways  alone  will  come  a  new  freemasonry 
to  rebuild  this  ruined  temple  of  our  day.  The 
ground  is  rubbled  with  stones — fallen,  and  still 
falling.    Each  must  be  replaced;  freshly  shaped, 

12 


THE   SACRED   WORK 

cemented,  and  mortised  in,  that  the  whole  may 
once  more  stand  firm  and  fair.  In  good  time,  to  a 
clearer  sky  than  we  are  fortunate  enough  to  look 
on,  our  temple  shall  rise  again.  The  birds  shall 
not  long  build  in  its  broken  walls,  nor  lichens 
moss  it.  The  winds  shall  not  long  play  through 
these  now  jagged  windows,  nor  the  rain  drift  in, 
nor  moonlight  fill  it  with  ghosts  and  shadows. 
To  the  glory  of  man  we  will  stanchion,  and  raise 
and  roof  it  anew. 

Each  comrade  who  for  his  Motherland  has,  for 
the  moment,  lost  his  future  is  a  miniature  of  that 
shattered  temple. 

To  restore  him,  and  with  him  the  future  of  our 
countries,  that  is  the  sacred  work. 


THE  BALANCE  SHEET  OF  THE 
SOLDIER-WORKMAN 

Let  the  reader  take  what  follows  with  more 
than  a  grain  of  salt.  No  one  can  foretell — surely 
not  this  writer — with  anything  approaching  cer- 
tainty what  will  be  the  final  effect  of  this  war  on 
the  soldier-workman.  One  can  but  marshal  some 
of  the  more  obvious  and  general  liabihties  and 
assets,  and  try  to  strike  a  balance.  The  whole 
thing  is  in  flux.  Milhons  are  going  into  the  cruci- 
ble at  every  temperature;  and  who  shall  say  at 
all  precisely  what  will  come  out  or  what  condi- 
tions the  product  issuing  will  meet  with,  though 
they  obviously  cannot  be  the  same  as  before  the 
war?  For  in  considering  this  question,  one  must 
run  into  the  account  on  either  side  not  only  the 
various  effects  of  the  war  on  the  soldier-workman, 
but  the  altered  influences  his  life  will  encounter 
in  the  future,  so  far  as  one  can  foresee:  and  this 
is  all  navigation  in  uncharted  waters. 

Talking  with  and  observing  French  soldiers  dur- 
ing the  winter  of  1916-1917,  and  often  putting 
to  them  this  very  question :  How  is  the  war  going 
to  affect  the  soldier-workman?  I  noticed  that 
their  answers  followed  very  much  the  trend  of 

14 


THE  BALANCE   SHEET 

class  and  politics.  An  adjutant,  sergeant,  or  de- 
vout Catholic  considered  that  men  would  be  im- 
proved, gain  self-command,  and  respect  for  law 
and  order,  under  prolonged  discipline  and  daily 
sacrifice.  A  freethinker  of  the  educated  class,  or 
a  private  of  Socialistic  tendencies,  on  the  other 
hand,  would  insist  that  the  strain  must  make  men 
restless,  irritable,  more  eager  for  their  rights,  less 
tolerant  of  control.  Each  imagined  that  the  war 
would  further  the  chances  of  the  future  as  they 
dreamed  of  it.  If  I  had  talked  with  capitalists — 
there  are  none  among  French  soldiers — they 
would  doubtless  have  insisted  that  after-war  con- 
ditions were  going  to  be  easier,  just  as  the  "sam- 
sous^'  maintained  that  they  were  going  to  be 
harder  and  provocative  of  revolution.  In  a  word, 
the  wish  was  father  to  the  thought. 

Having  observ^ed  this  so  strongly,  the  writer  of 
these  speculations  says  to  himself:  "Let  me,  at 
all  events,  try  to  eliminate  any  bias,  and  see  the 
whole  thing  as  should  an  umpire — one  of  those 
pure  beings  in  white  coats,  purged  of  all  the  preju- 
dices, passions,  and  predilections  of  mankind. 
Let  me  have  no  temperament  for  the  time  being, 
for  I  have  to  set  down — not  what  would  be  the 
effect  on  me  if  I  were  in  their  place,  or  what 
would  happen  to  the  future  if  I  could  have  my 
way,  but  what  would  happen  all  the  same  if  I 

15 


THE  BALANCE  SHEET 

were  not  alive.  Only  from  an  impersonal  point 
of  view,  if  there  be  such  a  thing,  am  I  going  to 
get  even  approximately  at  the  truth." 

Impersonally,  then,  one  notes  the  credit  facts 
and  probabilities  towards  the  future's  greater 
well-being;  and  those  on  the  debit  side,  of  retro- 
gression from  the  state  of  well-being,  such  as  it 
was,  which  prevailed  when  war  was  declared. 

First,  what  will  be  the  physical  effect  of  the 
war  on  the  soldier-workman?  Military  training, 
open-air  life,  and  plentiful  food  are  of  such  obvious 
physical  advantage  in  the  vast  majority  of  cases 
as  to  need  no  pointing  out.  And  how  much  im- 
provement was  wanted  is  patent  to  any  one  who 
has  a  remnant  left  of  the  old  Greek  worship  of 
the  body.  It  has  made  one  almost  despair  of 
industrialised  England  to  see  the  great  Australians 
pass  in  the  streets  of  London.  We  English  can- 
not afford  to  neglect  the  body  any  longer;  we  are 
becoming,  I  am  much  afraid,  a  warped,  stunted, 
intensely  plain  people.  On  that  point  I  refuse  to 
speak  with  diffidence,  for  it  is  my  business  to 
know  something  about  beauty,  and  in  our  masters 
and  pastors  I  see  no  sign  of  knowledge  and  little 
inkling  of  concern,  since  there  is  no  public  opinion 
to  drive  them  forward  to  respect  beauty.  One- 
half  of  us  regard  good  looks  as  dangerous  and  sa- 
vouring of  immorality;  the  other  half  look  upon 

16 


OF  THE  SOLDIER-WORKMAN 

them  as  "swank,"  or  at  least  superfluous.  Any 
interest  manifested  in  such  a  subject  is  confined 
to  a  few  women  and  a  handful  of  artists.  Let 
any  one  who  has  an  eye  for  looks  take  the  trouble 
to  observe  the  people  who  pass  in  the  streets  of 
any  of  our  big  towns,  he  will  count  perhaps  one 
in  five — not  beautiful — but  with  some  pretensions 
to  being  not  absolutely  plain;  and  one  can  say 
this  without  fear  of  hurting  any  feelings,  for  all 
will  think  themselves  exceptions.  FrivoHty  apart, 
there  is  a  dismal  lack  of  good  looks  and  good  phy- 
sique in  our  population;  and  it  will  be  all  to  the 
good  to  have  had  this  physical  training.  If  that 
training  had  stopped  short  of  the  fighting  line  it 
would  be  physically  entirely  beneficial;  as  it  is, 
one  has  unfortunately  to  set  against  its  advan- 
tages— leaving  out  wounds  and  mutilation  alto- 
gether— a  considerable  number  of  overstrained 
hearts  and  nerves,  not  amounting  to  actual  dis- 
ablement; and  a  great  deal  of  developed  rheuma- 
tism. 

Peace  will  send  back  to  their  work  very  many 
men  better  set  up  and  hardier;  but  many  also  ob- 
viously or  secretly  weakened.  Hardly  any  can 
go  back  as  they  were.  Yet,  while  training  will 
but  have  brought  out  strength  which  was  always 
latent,  and  which,  unless  relapse  be  guarded 
against,  must  rapidly  decline,  cases  of  strain  and 

17 


THE  BALANCE  SHEET 

rheumatism  will  for  the  most  part  be  permanent, 
and  such  as  would  not  have  taken  place  under 
peace  conditions.  Then  there  is  the  matter  of 
venereal  disease,  which  the  conditions  of  military 
life  are  carefully  fostering — no  negligible  factor 
on  the  debit  side;  the  health  of  many  hundreds 
must  be  written  off  on  that  score.  To  credit, 
again,  must  be  placed  increased  personal  cleanli- 
ness, much  greater  handiness  and  resource  in  the 
small  ways  of  life,  and  an  even  more  complete 
endurance  and  contempt  of  illness  than  already 
characterised  the  British  workman,  if  that  be 
possible.  On  the  whole  I  think  that,  physically, 
the  scales  will  balance  pretty  evenly. 

Next,  what  will  be  the  effect  of  the  war  on  the 
mental  powers  of  the  soldier-workman?  Unlike 
the  French  (sixty  per  cent,  of  whose  army  are 
men  working  on  the  land),  our  army  must  con- 
tain at  least  ninety  per  cent,  of  town  workers, 
whose  minds  in  time  of  peace  are  kept  rather 
more  active  than  those  of  workers  on  the  land  by 
the  ceaseless  friction  and  small  decisions  of  town 
life.  To  gauge  the  result  of  two  to  five  years' 
military  life  on  the  minds  of  these  town  workers 
is  a  complicated  and  stubborn  problem.  Here  we 
have  the  exact  converse  of  the  physical  case.  If 
the  army  life  of  the  soldier-workman  stopped 
short  of  service  at  the  front  one  might  say  at 

18 


OF  THE  SOLDIER-WORKMAN 

once  that  the  effect  on  his  mind  would  be  far 
more  disastrous  than  it  is.  The  opportunity  for 
initiative  and  decision,  the  mental  stir  of  camp 
and  depot  life  is  nil  compared  with  that  of  ser- 
vice in  the  fighting  line.  And  for  one  month  at 
the  front  a  man  spends  perhaps  five  at  the  rear. 
Military  life,  on  its  negative  side,  is  more  or  less 
a  suspension  of  the  usual  channels  of  mental 
activity.  By  barrack  and  camp  life  the  normal 
civilian  intellect  is,  as  it  were,  marooned.  On 
that  desert  island  it  finds,  no  doubt,  certain  new 
and  very  definite  forms  of  activity,  but  any  one 
who  has  watched  old  soldiers  must  have  been 
struck  by  the  "arrested"  look  which  is  stamped 
on  most  of  them — by  a  kind  of  remoteness,  of 
concentrated  emptiness,  as  of  men  who  by  the 
conditions  of  their  lives  have  long  been  prevented 
from  thinking  of  anything  outside  a  ring  fence. 
Two  to  five  years'  service  will  not  be  long  enough 
to  set  the  old  soldier's  stamp  on  a  mind,  but  one 
can  see  the  process  beginning;  and  it  will  be  quite 
long  enough  to  encourage  laziness  in  minds  already 
disposed  to  lying  fallow.  Far  be  it  from  this  pen 
to  libel  the  English,  but  a  feverish  mental  activity 
has  never  been  their  vice;  intellect,  especially  in 
what  is  known  as  the  working-class,  is  leisurely; 
it  does  not  require  to  be  encouraged  to  take  its 
ease.    Some  one  has  asked  me :  "  Can  the  ordinarv 

19 


THE  BALANCE  SHEET 

worker  think  less  in  the  army  than  when  he  wasn't 
in  the  army?"  In  other  words:  "Did  he  ever 
think  at  all?"  The  British  worker  is,  of  course, 
deceptive;  he  does  not  look  as  if  he  were  thinking. 
Whence  exactly  does  he  get  his  stolidity — from 
climate,  self-consciousness,  or  his  competitive 
spirit  ?  All  the  same,  thought  does  go  on  in  him, 
shrewd  and  "  near-the-bone " ;  life-made  rather 
than  book-made  thought.  Its  range  is  limited  by 
its  vocabulary;  it  starts  from  different  premises, 
reaches  different  conclusions  from  those  of  the 
"pundit,"  and  so  is  liable  to  seem  to  the  latter 
non-existent.  But  let  a  worker  and  an  educated 
man  sit  opposite  each  other  in  a  railway  carriage 
without  exchanging  a  word,  as  is  the  fashion  with 
the  English,  and  which  of  their  two  silent  judg- 
ments on  the  other  will  be  superior?  I  am  not 
sure,  but  I  rather  think  the  worker's.  It  will 
have  a  kind  of  deadly  reahsm.  In  camp  and 
depot  life  the  mind  standing-at-ease  from  many 
civilian  frictions  and  needs  for  decision,  however 
petty,  and  shaken  away  from  civiUan  ruts,  will  do 
a  good  deal  of  thinking  of  a  sort,  be  widened,  and 
probably  re-value  many  things — especially  when 
its  owner  goes  abroad  and  sees  fresh  types,  fresh 
manners,  and  the  world.  But  actual  physical  ex- 
ertion, and  the  inertia  which  follows  it,  bulk  large 
in  military  service,  and  many  who  "never  thought 

20 


OF  THE  SOLDIER-WORKMAN 

at  all"  before  they  became  soldiers  will  think 
still  less  after !  I  may  be  cynical,  but  it  seems  to 
me  that  the  chief  stimulus  to  thought  in  the  ordi- 
nary mind  is  money,  the  getting  and  the  spending 
thereof;  that  what  we  call  "politics,"  those  social 
interests  which  form  at  least  half  the  staple  of  the 
ordinary  worker's  thought,  are  made  up  of  con- 
cern as  to  the  wherewithal  to  live.  In  the  army 
money  is  a  fixed  quantity  which  demands  no 
thought,  neither  in  the  getting  nor  the  spending; 
and  the  constant  mental  activity  which  in  normal 
life  circles  round  money  of  necessity  dries  up. 

But  against  this  indefinite  general  rusting  of 
mind  machinery  in  the  soldier-workman's  life 
away  from  the  fighting  line  certain  definite  con- 
siderations must  be  set.  Many  soldiers  will  form 
a  habit  of  reading — in  the  new  armies  the  demand 
for  books  is  great;  some  in  sheer  boredom  will 
have  begun  an  all-round  cultivation  of  their 
minds;  others  again  will  be  chafing  continually 
against  this  prolonged  holding-up  of  their  habitual 
mental  traffic — and  when  a  man  chafes  he  does 
not  exactly  rust;  so  that,  while  the  naturally  lazy 
will  have  been  made  more  lazy,  the  naturally 
eager  may  be  made  very  eager. 

The  matter  of  age,  too,  is  not  unimportant.  A 
soldier  of  twenty,  twenty-five,  even  up  to  thirty, 
probably  seldom  feels  that  the  mode  of  life  from 

21 


THE  BALANCE  SHEET 

which  he  has  been  taken  is  set  and  permanent. 
He  may  be  destined  to  do  that  work  ail  his  days, 
but  the  knowledge  of  this  has  not  so  far  bitten 
him;  he  is  not  yet  in  the  swing  and  current  of  his 
career,  and  feels  no  great  sense  of  dislocation. 
But  a  man  of  thirty-five  or  forty,  taken  from  an 
occupation  which  has  got  grip  on  him,  feels  that 
his  life  has  had  a  slice  carved  out  of  it.  He  may 
realise  the  necessity  better  than  the  younger  man, 
take  his  duty  more  seriously,  but  must  have  a 
sensation  as  if  his  springs  were  let  down  flat. 
The  knowledge  that  he  has  to  resume  his  occupa- 
tion again  in  real  middle  age,  with  all  the  steam 
escaped,  must  be  profoundly  discouraging;  there- 
fore I  think  his  mental  activity  will  suffer  more 
than  that  of  the  younger  man.  The  recuperative 
powers  of  youth  are  so  great  that  very  many  of 
our  younger  soldiers  will  unrust  quickly  and  at  a 
bound  regain  all  the  activity  lost.  Besides,  a 
very  great  many  of  the  younger  men  will  not  go 
back  to  the  old  job.  But  older  men,  though  they 
will  go  back  to  what  they  were  doing  before  more 
readily  than  their  juniors,  will  go  back  with  dimin- 
ished hope  and  energ}^,  and  a  sort  of  fatalism. 
At  forty,  even  at  thirty-five,  every  year  begins  to 
seem  important,  and  several  years  will  have  been 
wrenched  out  of  their  working  fives  just,  perhaps, 
when  they  were  beginning  to  make  good. 


OF  THE  SOLDIER-WORKMAN 

Turning  to  the  spells  of  service  at  the  front — 
there  will  be  no  rusting  there — the  novelty  of 
sensation,  the  demand  for  initiative  and  adapta- 
bihty  are  too  great.  A  soldier  said  to  me:  "My 
two  years  in  depot  and  camp  were  absolutely 
deadening;  that  eight  weeks  at  the  front  before  I 
was  knocked  over  were  the  best  eight  weeks  I 
ever  had."  Spells  at  the  front  must  wipe  out  all 
or  nearly  all  the  rust;  but  against  them  must  be 
set  the  deadening  spells  of  hospital,  which  too 
often  follow,  the  deadening  spells  of  training 
which  have  gone  before;  and  the  more  consider- 
able though  not  very  permanent  factor — that 
laziness  and  dislocation  left  on  the  minds  of  many 
who  have  been  much  in  the  firing  Hne.  As  the 
same  young  soldier  put  it:  "I  can't  concentrate 
now  as  I  could  on  a  bit  of  work — it  takes  me 
longer;  all  the  same,  where  I  used  to  chuck  it 
when  I  found  it  hard,  I  set  my  teeth  now."  In 
other  words,  less  mental  but  more  moral  grip. 

On  the  whole,  then,  so  far  as  mental  effect  goes, 
I  beheve  the  balance  must  come  out  on  the  debit 
side. 

And,  now,  what  will  be  the  spiritual  effect  of 
the  war  on  the  soldier-workman?  And  by  "spir- 
itual" I  mean  the  effect  of  his  new  life  and  emo- 
tional experience,  neither  on  his  intellect,  nor 
exactly  on  his  "soul"— for  very-  few  men  have 

23 


THE  BALANCE  SHEET 

anything  so  rarefied — but  on  his  disposition  and 
character. 

Has  any  one  the  right  to  discuss  this  who  has 
not  fought?  It  is  with  the  greatest  diffidence 
that  I  hazard  any  view.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
effects  are  so  various,  and  so  intensely  individual, 
that  perhaps  only  such  a  one  has  a  chance  of 
forming  a  general  judgment  unbiassed  by  personal 
experience  and  his  own  temperament.  What 
thousands  of  strange  and  poignant  feelings  must 
pass  through  even  the  least  impressionable  soldier 
who  runs  the  gamut  of  this  war's  ''experience"! 
And  there  will  not  be  too  many  of  our  soldier- 
workmen  returning  to  civil  life  without  having 
had  at  least  a  taste  of  everything.  The  embryo 
Guardsman  who  sticks  his  bayonet  into  a  sack, 
be  he  never  so  unimaginative,  with  each  jab  of 
that  bayonet  pictures  dimly  the  body  of  a  "Hun," 
and  gets  used  to  the  sensation  of  spitting  it.  On 
every  long  march  there  comes  a  time  that  may 
last  hours  when  the  recruit  feels  done  up,  and  yet 
has  to  go  on  "sticking  it."  Never  a  day  passes, 
all  through  his  service,  without  some  moment 
when  he  would  give  his  soul  to  be  out  of  it  all 
and  back  in  some  little  elysium  of  the  past;  but 
he  has  to  grit  his  teeth  and  try  to  forget.  Hardly 
a  man  who,  when  he  first  comes  under  fire,  has 
not  a  struggle  with  himself  which  amounts  to  a 

24 


OF  the;  soldier-workman 

spiritual  victory.  Not  many  who  do  not  arrive 
at  a  "Don't  care"  state  of  mind  that  is  ahnost 
equal  to  a  spiritual  defeat.  No  soldier  who  does 
not  rub  shoulders  during  his  service  with  count- 
less comrades  strange  to  him,  and  get  a  wider 
understanding  and  a  fuller  tolerance.  Not  a  soul 
in  the  trenches,  one  would  think,  who  is  not 
caught  up  into  a  mood  of  comradeship  and  self- 
suppression  which  amounts  almost  to  exaltation. 
Not  one  but  has  to  fight  through  moods  almost 
reaching  extinction  of  the  very  love  of  Hfe.  And 
shall  all  this — and  the  many  hard  disappoint- 
ments, and  the  long  yearning  for  home  and  those 
he  loves,  and  the  chafing  against  continual  re- 
straints, and  the  welling-up  of  secret  satisfaction 
in  the  "bit  done,"  the  knowledge  that  Fate  is 
not  beating,  cannot  beat  him;  and  the  sight  of 
death  all  round,  and  the  lookmg  into  Death's  eyes 
— staring  those  eyes  down;  and  the  long  bearing 
of  pain;  and  the  pity  for  his  comrades  bearing 
pain — shall  all  this  pass  his  nature  by  without 
marking  it  for  life?  When  all  is  over,  and  the 
soldier-workman  back  in  civil  life,  will  his  char- 
acter be  enlarged  or  shrunken  ?  The  nature  of  a 
man  is  never  really  changed,  no  more  than  a 
leopard's  skin,  it  is  but  developed  or  dwarfed. 
The  influences  of  the  war  will  have  as  many  Uttle 
forms  as  there  are  soldiers,  and  to  attempt  preci- 

25 


THE  BALANCE  SHEET 

sion  of  summary  is  clearly  vain.  It  is  something 
of  a  truism  to  suggest  that  the  war  will  ennoble 
and  make  more  serious  those  who  before  the  war 
took  a  noble  and  serious  view  of  life;  and  that  on 
those  who  took  life  callously  it  will  have  a  callous- 
ing effect.  The  problem  is  rather  to  discover 
what  effect,  if  any,  will  be  made  on  that  medium 
material  which  was  neither  definitely  serious  nor 
obviously  callous.  And  for  this  we  must  go  to 
consideration  of  main  national  characteristics.  It 
is — for  one  thing — very  much  the  nature  of  the 
Briton  to  look  on  life  as  a  game  with  victory  or 
defeat  at  the  end  of  it,  and  to  feel  it  impossible 
that  he  can  be  defeated.  He  is  not  so  much  con- 
cerned to  "live"  as  to  win  this  life  match.  He 
is  combative  from  one  minute  to  the  next,  reacts 
instantly  against  any  attempt  to  down  him.  The 
war  for  him  is  a  round  in  this  great  personal  match 
of  his  with  Fate,  and  he  is  completely  caught  up 
in  the  idea  of  winning  it.  He  is  spared  that 
double  consciousness  of  the  French  soldier  who 
wants  to  "Uve,"  who  goes  on  indeed  superbly 
fighting  "pour  la  France^'  out  of  love  for  his 
country,  but  all  the  time  cannot  help  saying  to 
himself:  "What  a  fool  I  am — what  sort  of  life  is 
this?"  I  have  heard  it  said  by  one  who  ought 
to  know,  if  any  one  can,  that  the  British  soldier 
hardly  seems  to  have  a  sense  of  patriotism,  but 

26 


OF  THE  SOLDIER-WORKMAN 

goes  through  it  all  as  a  sort  of  private  "scrap"  in 
which  he  does  not  mean  to  be  beaten,  and  out  of 
loyalty  to  his  regiment,  his  *Heam,"  so  to  speak. 
This  is  partly  true,  but  the  Briton  is  very  deep, 
and  there  are  feelings  at  the  bottom  of  his  well 
which  never  see  the  light.  If  the  British  soldier 
were  fighting  on  a  line  which  ran  from  Lowestoft 
through  York  to  Sunderland,  he  might  show  very 
different  symptoms.  Still,  at  bottom  he  would 
always,  I  think,  feel  the  business  to  be  first  in  the 
nature  of  a  contest  with  a  force  which  was  trying 
to  down  him  personally.  In  this  contest  he  is 
being  stretched,  and  steeled — that  is,  hardened 
and  confirmed — in  the  very  quality  of  stubborn 
combativeness  which  was  already  his  first  char- 
acteristic. 

Take  another  main  feature  of  the  national 
character — the  Briton  is  ironic.  Well,  the  war 
is  deepening  his  irony.  It  must,  for  it  is  a  mon- 
strously ironic  business. 

Some — especially  those  who  wish  to — believe  in 
a  religious  revival  among  the  soldiers.  There's 
an  authentic  story  of  two  convalescent  soldiers 
describing  a  battle.  The  first  finished  thus:  "I 
tell  you  it  makes  you  think  of  God."  The  second 
— a  thoughtful  type — ended  with  a  pause,  and 
then  these  words:  "Who  could  beheve  in  God 
after  that?"    Like  all  else  in  human  life,  it  de- 

27 


THE  BALANCE  SHEET 

pends  on  temperament.  The  war  will  speed  up 
"belief"  in  some  and  "disbelief"  in  others.  But, 
on  the  whole,  comic  courage  shakes  no  hands  with 
orthodoxy. 

The  religious  movement  which  I  think  is  going 
on  is  of  a  subtler  and  a  deeper  sort  altogether. 
Men  are  discovering  that  human  beings  are  finer 
than  they  had  supposed.  A  young  man  said  to 
me:  "Well,  I  don't  know  about  rehgion,  but  I 
know  that  my  opinion  of  human  nature  is  about 
fifty  per  cent,  better  than  it  was."  That  conclu- 
sion has  been  arrived  at  by  countless  thousands. 
It  is  a  great  factor — seeing  that  the  belief  of  the 
future  will  be  behef  in  the  God  within;  and  a 
frank  agnosticism  concerning  the  great  "Why" 
of  things.  Religion  will  become  the  exaltation  of 
self-respect,  of  what  we  call  the  divine  in  man. 
"The  Kingdom  of  God"  is  within  you.  That 
belief,  old  as  the  hills,  and  reincarnated  by  Tol- 
stoi years  ago,  has  come  into  its  own  in  the  war; 
for  it  has  been  clearly  proved  to  be  the  real  faith 
of  modern  man,  imderneath  all  verbal  attempts 
to  assert  the  contrary.  This — the  white  side  of 
war — ^is  an  extraordinarily  heartening  phenome- 
non; and  if  it  sent  every  formal  creed  in  the 
world  packing  there  would  still  be  a  gain  to 
religion. 

Another  main  characteristic  of  the  Briton, 
28 


OF  THE  SOLDIER-WORKMAN 

especially  of  the  "working"  Briton,  is  improvi- 
dence— he  likes,  unconsciously,  to  Uve  from 
hand  to  mouth,  careless  of  the  morrow.  The  war 
is  deepening  that  characteristic  too — it  must,  for 
who  could  endure  if  he  fretted  over  what  was 
going  to  happen  to  him,  with  death  so  in  the 
wind? 

Thus  the  average  soldier-workman  will  return 
from  the  war  confirmed  and  deepened  in  at  least 
three  main  national  characteristics :  His  combative 
hardihood,  his  ironic  humour,  and  his  improvi- 
dence. I  think  he  will  have  more  of  what  is 
called  ''character";  whether  for  good  or  evil  de- 
pends, I  take  it,  on  what  we  connote  by  those 
terms,  and  in  what  context  we  use  them.  I  may 
look  on  ''character"  as  an  asset,  but  I  can  well 
imagine  politicians  and  trades  union  leaders  re- 
garding it  with  profound  suspicion.  Anyway,  he 
will  not  be  the  lamb  that  he  was  not  even  before 
the  war.  He  will  be  a  restive  fellow,  knowing 
his  own  mind  better,  and  possibly  his  real  inter- 
ests less  well;  he  will  play  less  for  safety,  since 
safety  will  have  become  to  him  a  civilian  sort  of 
thing,  rather  contemptible.  He  will  have  at  once 
a  more  interesting  and  a  less  reliable  character 
from  the  social  and  political  point  of  view. 

And  what  about  his  humanity?  Can  he  go 
through  all  this  hell  of  slaughter  and  violence 

29 


THE  BALANCE  SHEET 

untouched  in  his  gentler  instincts  ?  There  will  be 
— there  must  be — some  bmtalisation.  But  old 
soldiers  are  not  usually  inhumane — on  the  con- 
trary, they  are  often  very  gentle  beings.  I  dis- 
trust the  influence  of  the  war  on  those  who  merely 
write  and  read  about  it.  I  think  editors,  journal- 
ists, old  gentlemen,  and  women  will  be  brutalised 
in  larger  numbers  than  our  soldiers.  An  intelli- 
gent French  soldier  said  to  me  of  his  own  country- 
men: "After  six  months  of  civil  life,  you  won't 
know  they  ever  had  to  'clean  up'  trenches  and 
that  sort  of  thing."  If  this  is  true  of  the  French- 
man, it  will  be  more  true  of  the  less  impressionable 
Briton.  If  I  must  sum  up  at  all  on  what,  for 
want  of  a  better  word,  I  have  called  the  "spiri- 
tual" coimt,  I  can  only  say  that  there  will  be  a 
distinct  increase  of  "character,"  and  leave  it  to 
the  reader  to  decide  whether  that  falls  on  the 
debit  or  the  credit  side. 

On  the  whole  then,  an  increase  of  "character," 
a  shght  loss  of  mental  activity,  and  neither  phys- 
ical gain  nor  loss  to  speak  of. 

We  have  now  to  consider  the  rather  deadly 
matter  of  demobihsation.  One  hears  the  sugges- 
tion that  not  more  than  30,000  men  shall  be  dis- 
banded per  week;  this  means  two  years  at  least. 
Conceive  millions  of  men  whose  sense  of  sacrifice 
has  been  stretched  to  the  full  for  a  definite  object 

30 


OF  THE  SOLDIER-WORKMAN 

which  has  been  gained — conceive  them  held  in  a 
weary,  and,  as  it  seems  to  them,  unnecessary 
state  of  suspense.  Kept  back  from  all  they  long 
for,  years  after  the  reality  of  their  service  has 
departed!  If  this  does  not  undermine  them,  I 
do  not  know  what  will.  Demobilisation — they 
say — must  be  cautious.  "No  man  should  be  re- 
leased till  a  place  in  the  industrial  machine  is 
ready  waiting  for  him !"  So,  in  a  counsel  of  per- 
fection, speak  the  wise  who  have  not  been  de- 
prived of  home  life,  civil  Hberty,  and  what  not 
for  a  dismal  length  of  two,  three,  and  perhaps 
four  years.  No!  DemobiHsation  should  be  as 
swift  as  possible,  and  risks  be  run  to  make  it  swift. 
The  soldier-workman  who  goes  back  to  civil  life 
within  two  or  three  months  after  peace  is  signed 
goes  back  with  a  glow  still  in  his  heart.  But  he 
who  returns  with  a  rankling  sense  of  unmerited, 
unintelligible  delay — ^most  prudently,  of  course, 
ordained — goes  back  with  '^cold  feet"  and  a 
sullen  or  revolting  spirit.  WTiat  men  will  stand 
under  the  shadow  of  a  great  danger  from  a  sense 
of  imminent  duty,  they  will  furiously  chafe  at 
when  that  danger  and  sense  of  duty  are  no  more. 
The  duty  will  then  be  to  their  families  and  to 
themselves.  There  is  no  getting  away  from  this, 
and  the  country  will  be  well  advised  not  to  be  too 
coldly  cautious.    Every  one,  of  course,  must  wish 

31 


THE  BALANCE  SHEET 

to  ease  to  the  utmost  the  unprecedented  economic 
and  industrial  confusion  which  the  signing  of 
peace  will  bring,  but  it  will  be  better  to  risk  a 
good  deal  of  momentary  unemployment  and  dis- 
content rather  than  neglect  the  human  factor  and 
keep  men  back  long  months  in  a  service  of  which 
they  will  be  deadly  sick.  How  sick  they  will  be 
may  perhaps  be  guessed  at  from  the  words  of  a 
certain  soldier:  "After  the  war  you'll  have  to  have 
conscription.  You  won't  get  a  man  to  go  into  the 
army  without!"  What  is  there  to  prevent  the 
Government  from  beginning  now  to  take  stock 
of  the  demands  of  industry,  from  having  a  great 
land  settlement  scheme  cut  and  dried,  and  devis- 
ing means  for  the  swiftest  possible  demobilisa- 
tion? The  moment  peace  is  signed  the  process 
of  re-absorption  into  civil  life  should  begin  at 
once  and  go  on  without  interruption  as  swiftly  as 
the  actual  difficulties  of  transport  permit.  They, 
of  themselves,  will  hold  up  demobihsation  quite 
long  enough.  The  soldier-workman  will  recog- 
nise and  bear  with  the  necessary  physical  delays, 
but  he  will  not  tolerate  for  a  moment  any  others 
for  his  so-called  benefit.* 
And  what  sort  of  civil  life  will  it  be  which 


*  Since  these  words  were  written  one  hears  of  demobilization 
Bchemes  ready  to  the  laat  buttons.  Let  us  hope  the  buttons 
won't  come  off. — J.  G. 

32 


OF  THE  SOLDIER-WORKMAN 

awaits  the  soldier-workman?  I  suppose,  if  any- 
thing is  certain,  a  plenitude,  nay  a  plethora,  of 
work  is  assured  for  some  time  after  the  war. 
Capital  has  piled  up  in  hands  which  will  control 
a  vast  amount  of  improved  and  convertible  ma- 
chinery. Purchasing  power  has  piled  up  in  the 
shape  of  savings  out  of  the  increased  national 
income.  Granted  that  income  will  at  once  begin 
to  drop  all  round,  shrinking  perhaps  fast  to  below 
the  pre-war  figures,  still  at  first  there  must  be  a 
rolUng  river  of  demand  and  the  wherewithal  to 
satisfy  it.  For  years  no  one  has  built  houses,  or 
had  their  houses  done  up;  no  one  has  bought  fur- 
niture, clothes,  or  a  thousand  other  articles  which 
they  propose  buying  the  moment  the  war  stops. 
Railways  and  rolling  stock,  roads,  housing,  pub- 
lic works  of  all  sorts,  private  motor  cars,  and 
pleasure  requirements  of  every  kind  have  been 
let  down  and  starved.  Huge  quantities  of  ship- 
ping must  be  replaced;  vast  renovations  of  de- 
stroyed country  must  be  undertaken;  numberless 
repairs  to  damaged  property;  the  tremendous 
process  of  converting  or  re-converting  machinery 
to  civil  uses  must  be  put  through;  State  schemes 
to  deal  with  the  land,  housing,  and  other  prob- 
lems will  be  in  full  blast;  a  fierce  industrial  com- 
petition will  commence;  and,  above  all,  we  must 
positively  grow  our  own  food  in  the  future.    Be- 

33 


THE  BALANCE  SHEET 

sides  all  this  we  shall  have  lost  at  least  a  million 
workers  through  death,  disablement,  and  emigra- 
tion; indeed,  unless  we  have  some  really  attrac- 
tive land  scheme  ready  we  may  lose  a  million  by 
emigration  alone.  In  a  word,  the  demand  for 
labour,  at  the  moment,  will  be  overwhelming,  and 
the  vital  question  only  one  of  readjustment.  In 
numberless  directions  women,  boys,  and  older 
men  have  replaced  the  soldier-workman.  Hun- 
dreds of  thousands  of  soldiers,  especially  among 
the  first  three  million,  have  been  guaranteed  rein- 
statement. Hundreds  of  thousands  of  substitutes 
will,  therefore,  be  thrown  out  of  work.  With  the 
exception  of  the  skilled  men  who  have  had  to  be 
retained  in  their  places  all  through,  and  the  men 
who  step  back  into  places  kept  for  them,  the 
whole  working  population  will  have  to  be  refitted 
with  jobs.  The  question  of  women's  labour  will 
not  be  grave  at  first  because  there  will  be  work 
for  all  and  more  than  all,  but  the  jigsaw  puzzle 
which  industry  will  have  to  put  together  will  try 
the  nerves  and  temper  of  the  whole  community. 
In  the  French  army  the  peasant  soldier  is  jealous 
and  sore  because  he  has  had  to  bear  the  chief  bur- 
den of  the  fighting,  while  the  mechanic  has  to  a 
great  extent  been  kept  for  munition  making, 
transport,  and  essential  civil  industr}\  With  us 
it  is  if  anything  the  other  way.    In  the  French 

34 


OF  THE  SOLDIER-WORKMAN 

army,  too,  the  feeling  runs  high  against  the  "em- 
husqu^/'  the  man  who — often  unjustly — is  sup- 
posed to  have  avoided  service.  I  do  not  know 
to  what  extent  the  same  feeling  prevails  in  our 
army,  but  there  is  certainly  an  element  of  it, 
which  will  not  make  for  content  or  quietude. 

Another  burning  question  after  the  war  will  be 
wages.  We  are  assured  they  are  going  to  keep 
up.  Well,  we  shall  see.  Certain  special  rates 
will,  of  course,  come  down  at  once.  And  if,  in 
general,  wages  keep  up,  it  will  not,  I  think,  be  for 
very  long.  Still,  times  will  be  good  at  first  for 
employers  and  employed.    At  first — and  then  ! 

Some  thinkers  insist  that  the  war  has  to  an 
appreciable  extent  been  financed  out  of  savings 
which  would  otherwise  have  been  spent  on  luxurj''. 
But  the  amount  thus  saved  can  easily  be  exag- 
gerated— the  luxurious  class  is  not  really  large, 
and  against  their  saving  must  be  set  the  spending 
by  the  working  classes,  out  of  increased  wages, 
on  what  in  peace  years  were  not  necessities  of 
their  existence.  In  other  words,  the  luxurious  or 
investing  class  has  cut  off  its  peace-time  fripperies, 
saved  and  lent  to  the  Government;  the  Govern- 
ment has  paid  the  bulk  of  this  money  to  the  work- 
ing class,  who  have  spent  most  of  it  in  what  to 
them  would  be  fripperies  in  time  of  peace.  It 
may  be,  it  is,  all  to  the  good  that  luxurious  tastes 

35 


THE  BALANCE  SHEET 

should  be  clipped  from  the  wealthy,  and  a  higher 
standard  of  Hving  secured  to  the  workers,  but  this 
is  rather  a  matter  of  distribution  and  social  health 
than  of  economics  in  relation  to  the  financing  of 
the  war. 

There  are  those  who  argue  that  because  the 
general  productive  effort  of  the  country  during 
the  wax  has  been  speeded  up  to  half  as  much 
again  as  that  of  normal  times,  by  tapping  women's 
labour,  by  longer  hours  and  general  improvement 
in  machinery  and  industrial  ideas,  the  war  will 
not  result  in  any  great  economic  loss,  and  that  we 
may  with  care  and  effort  avoid  the  coming  of  bad 
times  after  the  first  boom.  The  fact  remains, 
and  anybody  can  test  it  for  himself,  that  there  is 
a  growing  shortage  of  practically  everything  ex- 
cept— they  say — cheap  jewellery  and  pianos.  I 
am  no  economist,  but  that  does  seem  to  indicate 
that  this  extra  production  has  not  greatly  com- 
pensated for  the  enormous  application  of  labour 
and  material  resources  to  the  quick-wasting  ends 
of  war  instead  of  to  the  slow-wasting  ends  of 
civil  life.  In  other  words,  a  vast  amount  of  pro- 
ductive energy  and  material  is  being  shot  away. 
Now  this,  I  suppose,  would  not  matter,  in  fact 
might  be  beneficial  to  trade  by  increasing  de- 
mand, if  the  purchasing  power  of  the  public 
remained  what  it  was  before  the  war.    But  in  all 

36 


OF  THE  SOLDIER-WORKMAN 

the  great  countries  of  the  world,  even  America, 
the  peoples  will  be  faced  with  taxation  which 
will  soak  up  anything  from  one-fifth  to  one-third 
of  their  incomes,  and,  even  allowing  for  a  large 
swelling  of  those  incomes  from  war  savings,  so 
that  a  great  deal  of  what  the  State  takes  with  one 
hand  she  will  return  to  the  investing  pubHc  with 
the  other,  the  diminution  of  purchasing  power  is 
bound  to  make  itself  increasingly  felt.  When 
the  reconversion  of  machinery  to  civil  ends  has 
been  completed,  the  immediate  arrears  of  demand 
suppUed,  shipping  and  rolling-stock  replaced, 
houses  built,  repairs  made  good,  and  so  forth,  this 
slow  shrinkage  of  purchasing  power  in  every 
country  will  go  hand  in  hand  with  shrinkage  of 
demand,  decline  of  trade  and  wages,  and  unem- 
ployment, in  a  slow  process,  till  they  culminate 
in  what  one  fears  may  be  the  worst  "times"  we 
have  ever  known.  Whether  those  "times"  will 
set  in  one,  two,  or  even  six  years  after  the  war, 
is,  of  course,  the  question.  A  certain  school  of 
thought  insists  that  this  tremendous  taxation 
after  the  war,  and  the  consequent  impoverish- 
ment of  enterprise  and  industry,  can  be  avoided, 
or  at  all  events  greatly  relieved,  by  national 
schemes  for  the  development  of  the  Empire's 
latent  resources;  in  other  words,  that  the  State 
should  even  borrow  more  money  to  avoid  high 

37 


THE  BALANCE  SHEET 

taxation  and  pay  the  interests  on  existing  loans, 
should  acquire  native  lands,  and  swiftly  develop 
mineral  rights  and  other  potentialities.  I  hope 
there  may  be  something  in  this,  but  I  am  a  Httle 
afraid  that  the  wish  is  father  to  the  thought,  and 
that  the  proposition  contains  an  element  akin  to 
the  attempt  to  lift  oneself  up  by  the  hair  of  one's 
own  head;  for  I  notice  that  many  of  its  disciples 
are  recruited  from  those  who  in  old  days  were 
opposed  to  the  State  development  of  anything, 
on  the  ground  that  individual  energy  in  free  com- 
petition was  a  still  greater  driving  power. 

However  we  may  wriggle  in  our  skins  and  jug- 
gle with  the  chances  of  the  future,  I  suspect  that 
we  shall  have  to  pay  the  piper.  We  have  with- 
out doubt,  during  the  war,  been  living  to  a  great 
extent  on  our  capital.  Our  national  income  has 
gone  up,  out  of  capital,  from  twenty-two  hundred 
to  about  three  thousand  six  hundred  miUions, 
and  will  rapidly  shrink  to  an  appropriate  figure. 
Wealth  may,  I  admit,  recover  much  more  quickly 
than  deductions  from  the  past  would  lead  us  to 
expect.  Under  the  war's  pressure  secrets  have 
been  discovered,  machinery  improved,  men's 
energies  and  knowledge  brightened  and  toned  up. 
The  Prime  Minister  not  long  ago  said:  "If  you 
insist  on  going  back  to  pre-war  conditions,  then 
God  help  this  country ! "    A  wise  warning.    If  the 

38 


OF  THE  SOLDIER-WORKMAN 

country  could  be  got  to  pull  together  in  an  effort 
to  cope  with  peace  as  strenuous  as  our  effort  to 
cope  with  the  war  has  been  one  would  not  view 
the  economic  future  with  disquietude.  But  one 
is  bound  to  point  out  that  if  the  war  has  proved 
anything  it  has  proved  that  the  British  people 
require  a  maximum  of  danger  dangled  in  front  of 
their  very  noses  before  they  can  be  roused  to  any 
serious  effort,  and  that  danger  in  time  of  peace 
has  not  the  poster-like  quality  of  danger  in  time 
of  war;  it  does  not  hit  men  in  the  eye,  it  does  not 
still  differences  of  opinion,  and  party  struggles, 
by  its  scarlet  insistence.  I  hope  for,  but  frankly 
do  not  see,  the  coming  of  an  united  national 
effort  demanding  extra  energy",  extra  organising 
skill,  extra  patience,  and  extra  self-sacrifice  at  a 
time  when  the  whole  nation  will  feel  that  it  has 
earned  a  rest,  and  when  the  lid  has  once  more 
been  taken  off  the  political  cauldron.  I  fancy, 
dismally,  that  a  people  and  a  Press  who  have 
become  so  used  to  combat  and  excitement  will 
demand  and  seek  further  combat  and  excitement, 
and  will  take  out  this  itch  amongst  themselves  in 
a  fashion  even  more  strenuous  than  before  the 
war.  I  am  not  here  concerned  to  try  to  cheer  or 
depress  for  some  immediate  and  excellent  result, 
as  we  have  all  got  into  the  habit  of  doing  during 
the  war,  but  to  try  to  conjure  truth  out  of  the 

39 


THE  BALANCE  SHEET 

darkness  of  the  future.  The  vast  reconstructive 
process  which  ought  to  be,  and  perhaps  is,  begin- 
ning now  will,  I  think,  go  ahead  with  vigour  while 
the  war  is  on,  and  for  some  little  time  after;  but 
I  fear  it  will  then  split  into  pro  and  con,  see-saw, 
and  come  to  something  of  a  standstill. 

These,  so  sketchily  set  down,  are  a  few  of  the 
probable  items — credit  and  debit — in  the  indus- 
trial situation  which  will  await  the  soldier-work- 
man emerging  from  the  war.  A  situation  agi- 
tated, cross-currented,  bewildering,  but  busy,  and 
by  no  means  economically  tight  at  first,  slowly 
becoming  less  bewildering,  gradually  growing  less 
and  less  busy,  till  it  reaches  ultimately  a  bad  era 
of  unemployment  and  social  struggle.  The  sol- 
dier-workman will  go  back,  I  believe,  to  two  or 
three  years  at  least  of  good  wages  and  plentiful 
work.  But  when,  after  that,  the  pinch  begins  to 
come,  it  will  encounter  the  quicker,  more  resent- 
ful blood  of  men  who  in  the  constant  facing  of 
great  danger  have  left  behind  them  all  fear  of 
consequences;  of  men  who  in  the  survival  of  one 
great  dislocation  to  their  lives,  have  lost  the 
dread  of  other  dislocations.  The  war  will  have 
implanted  a  curious  deep  restlessness  in  the  great 
majority  of  soldier  souls.  Can  the  workmen  of 
the  future  possibly  be  as  patient  and  law-abiding 
as  they  were  before  the  war,  in  the  face  of  what 

40 


OF  THE  SOLDIER-WORKMAN 

seems  to  them  injustice?  I  don't  think  so.  The 
enemy  will  again  be  Fate — this  time  in  the  form 
of  capital,  trying  to  down  them;  and  the  victory 
they  were  conscious  of  gaining  over  Fate  in  the 
war  will  have  strengthened  and  quickened  their 
fibre  to  another  fight,  and  another  conquest. 
The  seeds  of  revolution  are  supposed  to  He  in 
war.  They  lie  there  because  war  generally  brings 
in  the  long  run  economic  stress,  but  also  because 
of  the  recklessness  or  "character" — call  it  what 
you  will — which  the  habitual  facing  of  danger 
develops.  The  self-control  and  self-respect  which 
military  service  under  war  conditions  will  have 
brought  to  the  soldier-workman  will  be  an  added 
force  in  civil  Ufe;  but  it  is  a  fallacy,  I  think,  to 
suppose,  as  some  do,  that  it  will  be  a  force  on  the 
side  of  established  order.  It  is  all  a  question  of 
allegiance,  and  the  allegiance  of  the  workman  in 
time  of  peace  is  not  rendered  to  the  State,  but  to 
himself  and  his  own  class.  To  the  service  of  that 
class  and  the  defence  of  its  "rights"  this  new 
force  will  be  given.  In  measuring  the  possibilities 
of  revolution,  the  question  of  class  rides  para- 
mount. Many  hold  that  the  war  is  breaking 
down  social  barriers  and  establishing  comrade- 
ship, through  hardship  and  danger  shared.  For 
the  moment  this  is  true.  But  whether  that  new 
comradeship  will  stand  any  great  pressure  of  eco- 

41 


THE  BALANCE  SHEET 

nomic  stress  after  direct  regimental  relationship 
between  officer  and  man  has  ceased  and  the  war 
is  becoming  just  a  painful  memory,  is  to  me  very 
doubtful.  But  suppose  that  to  some  extent  it 
does  stand,  we  have  still  the  fact  that  the  control 
of  industry  and  capital,  even  as  long  as  ten  years 
after  the  war,  will  be  mainly  in  the  hands  of  men 
who  have  not  fought,  of  business  men  spared 
from  service  either  by  age  or  by  their  too  pre- 
cious commercial  skill.  Towards  these  the  sol- 
dier-workman will  have  no  tender  feelings,  no 
sense  of  comradeship.  On  the  contrary — for 
somewhere  back  of  the  mind  of  every  workman 
there  is,  even  during  his  country's  danger,  a  cer- 
tain doubt  whether  all  war  is  not  somehow 
hatched  by  the  aristocrats  and  plutocrats  of  one 
side,  or  both.  Other  feelings  obscure  this  in- 
stinct during  the  struggle,  but  it  is  never  quite 
lost,  and  will  spring  up  again  the  more  confirmed 
for  its  repression.  That  we  can  avoid  a  strait- 
ened and  serious  time  a  few  years  hence  I  beheve 
impossible.  Straitened  times  dismally  divide  the 
classes.  The  war-investments  of  the  working 
class  may  ease  things  a  little,  but  war-savings  will 
not  affect  the  outlook  of  the  soldier-workman,  for 
he  will  have  no  war-savings,  except  his  life,  and 
it  is  from  him  that  revolution  or  disorder  will 
come,  if  it  come  at  all. 

42 


OF  THE  SOLDIER-WORKMAN 

Must  it  come?  I  think  most  certainly,  unless 
between  now  and  then  means  be  found  of  per- 
suading capital  and  labour  that  their  interests 
and  their  troubles  are  identical,  and  of  overcom- 
ing secrecy  and  suspicion  between  them.  There 
are  many  signs  already  that  capital  and  labour 
are  becoming  alive  to  this  necessity.  But  to  talk 
of  unity  is  an  amiable  distraction  in  which  we  all 
indulge  these  days.  To  find  a  method  by  which 
that  talk  may  be  translated  into  fact  within  a  few 
years  is  perhaps  more  difficult.  One  does  not 
change  human  nature;  and  unless  the  interests  of 
capital  and  labour  are  in  reality  made  one,  true 
co-operation  established,  and  factory  conditions 
transformed  on  the  lines  of  the  welfare  L^ystem — 
no  talk  of  unity  will  prevent  capitalist  and  work- 
ing man  from  claiming  what  seem  to  them  their 
rights.  The  labour  world  is  now,  and  for  some 
time  to  come  will  be,  at  sixes  and  sevens  in  mat- 
ters of  leadership  and  responsibility;  and  this  just 
when  sagacious  leadership  and  loyal  following 
will  be  most  needed.  The  soldier-workman  was 
already  restive  under  leadership  before  the  war; 
returned  to  civil  hfe,  he  will  be  far  more  restive. 
Yet,  without  leadership,  what  hope  is  there  of 
co-operation  with  capital ;  what  chance  of  finding 
a  golden  mean  of  agreement?  But  even  if  the 
problems  of  leadership  are  solved,  and  councils 

43 


THE  BALANCE  SHEET 

of  capitalists  and  labour  leaders  established,  whose 
decisions  will  be  followed — one  thing  is  still  cer- 
tain: no  half -measures  will  do;  no  seeming  cor- 
dialities with  mental  reservations;  no  simulated 
generosity  which  spills  out  on  the  first  test;  noth- 
ing but  genuine  friendliness  and  desire  to  pull 
together.  Those  hard  business  heads  which  dis- 
trust all  sentiment  as  if  it  were  a  poison  are  the 
most  short-sighted  heads  in  the  world.  There  is 
a  human  factor  in  this  affair,  as  both  sides  will 
find  to  their  cost  if  they  neglect  it.  Extremists 
must  be  sent  to  Coventrj^,  "caste"  feeling  dropped 
on  the  one  hand,  and  suspicion  dropped  on  the 
other;  managers,  directors,  and  labour  leaders,  all 
must  learn  that  they  are  not  simply  trustees  for 
their  shareholders  or  for  labour,  but  tmstees  of  a 
national  interest  which  embraces  them  all — or 
worse  will  come  of  it. 

But  I  am  not  presumptuous  enough  to  try  to 
teach  these  cooks  how  to  make  their  broth,  neither 
would  it  come  within  the  scope  of  these  specula- 
tions, which  conclude  thus :  The  soldier-workman, 
physically  unchanged,  mentally  a  little  weakened, 
but  more  "characterful"  and  restive,  will  step 
out  through  a  demobilisation — heaven  send  it  be 
swift,  even  at  some  risk! — into  an  industrial 
world,  confused  and  busy  as  a  beehive,  which 
will  hum  and  throb  and  flourish  for  two  or  three 

44 


OF  THE  SOLDIER-WORKMAN 

years,  and  then  slowly  chill  and  thin  away  into, 
may  be,  the  winter  ghost  of  itself,  or  at  best  an 
autumn  hive.  There,  unless  he  be  convinced, 
not  by  words  but  facts,  that  his  employer  is 
standing  side  by  side  with  him  in  true  comrade- 
ship, facing  the  deluge,  he  will  be  quick  to  rise, 
and  with  his  newly-found  self-confidence  take 
things  into  his  own  hands.  Whether,  if  he  does, 
he  will  make  those  things  better  for  himself  would 
be  another  inquiry  altogether. 

1917. 


45 


THE  CHILDREN'S  JEWEL  FUND 

The  mere  male  novelist  who  takes  pen  to  write 
on  infants  awaits  the  polished  comment:  "He 
knows  nothing  of  the  subject — rubbish,  pure  rub- 
bish!"    One  must  run  that  risk. 

In  the  report  of  the  National  Baby  Week  it  is 
written: — "Is  it  worth  while  to  destroy  our  best 
manhood  now  unless  we  can  ensure  that  there 
will  be  happy,  healthy  citizens  to  carry  on  the 
Empire  in  the  future  ?  "  I  confess  to  approaching 
this  subject  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  infant 
citizen  rather  than  of  the  Empire.  And  I  have 
wondered  sometimes  if  it  is  worth  while  to  save 
the  babies,  seeing  the  conditions  they  often  have 
to  face  as  grown  men  and  women.  But  that, 
after  all,  would  be  to  throw  up  the  sponge,  which 
is  not  the  part  of  a  Briton.  It  is  written  also: — 
"After  the  war  a  very  large  increase  in  the  birth- 
rate may  be  looked  for."  For  a  year  or  two,  per- 
haps; but  the  real  after-effect  of  the  war  will  be 
to  decrease  the  birth-rate  in  every  European 
country,  or  I  am  much  mistaken.  "No  food  for 
cannon,  and  no  extra  burdens,"  will  be  the  cry. 
And  little  wonder!  This,  however,  does  not 
affect  the  question  of  children  actually  bom  or 

46 


THE  CHILDREN'S  JEWEL  FUND 

on  their  way.  If  not  quantity,  we  can  at  all 
events  have  quality. 

I  also  read  an  account  of  the  things  to  be  done 
to  keep  "baby"  alive,  which  filled  me  with  won- 
der how  any  of  us  old  babies  managed  to  survive, 
and  I  am  afraid  that  unless  we  grow  up  healthy 
we  are  not  worth  the  trouble.  The  fact  is:  The 
whole  business  of  babies  is  an  activity  to  be 
engaged  in  with  some  regard  to  the  baby,  or  we 
commit  a  monstrous  injustice,  and  drag  the  hands 
of  the  world's  clock  backwards. 

How  do  things  stand  ?  Each  year  in  this  coun- 
try about  100,000  babies  die  before  they  have 
come  into  the  world;  and  out  of  the  800,000  born, 
about  90,000  die.  Many  mothers  become  per- 
manently damaged  in  health  by  evil  birth  condi- 
tions. Many  children  grow  up  mentally  or  physi- 
cally defective.  One  in  four  of  the  children  in 
our  elementary  schools  are  not  in  a  condition  to 
benefit  properly  by  their  schooHng.  What  sub- 
lime waste!  Ten  in  a  hundred  of  them  suffer 
from  malnutrition;  thirty  in  the  hundred  have 
defective  eyes;  eighty  in  the  hundred  need  dental 
treatment;  twenty  odd  in  the  hundred  have  en- 
larged tonsils  or  adenoids.  Many,  perhaps  most, 
of  these  deaths  and  defects  are  due  to  the  avoid- 
able ignorance,  ill-health,  mitigable  poverty,  and 
other  handicaps  which  dog  poor  mothers  before 

47 


THE  CHILDREN'S  JEAVEL  FUND 

and  after  a  baby's  birth.  One  doesn't  know 
wliich  to  pity  most — the  mothers  or  the  babies. 
Fortunately,  to  help  the  one  is  to  help  the  other. 
In  passing  I  would  like  to  record  two  sentiments : 
my  strong  impression  that  we  ought  to  follow  the 
example  of  America  and  establish  Mothers'  Pen- 
sions; and  my  strong  hope  that  those  who  visit 
the  sins  of  the  fathers  upon  illegitimate  children 
will  receive  increasingly  the  contempt  they  de- 
serve from  every  decent-minded  citizen. 

On  the  general  question  of  improving  the  health 
of  mothers  and  babies  I  would  remind  readers 
that  there  is  no  great  country  where  effort  is  half 
so  much  needed  as  here;  we  are  nearly  twice  as 
town  and  slum  ridden  as  any  other  people;  have 
grown  to  be  further  from  nature  and  more  feck- 
less about  food;  we  have  damper  air  to  breathe, 
and  less  sun  to  disinfect  us.  In  New  Zealand, 
with  a  climate  somewhat  similar  to  ours,  the  in- 
fant mortality  rate  has,  as  a  result  of  a  wide- 
spread educational  campaign,  been  reduced  within 
the  last  few  years  to  50  per  1,000  from  110  per 
1,000  a  few  years  ago.  It  is  perhaps  too  sanguine 
to  expect  that  we,  so  much  more  town-ridden, 
can  do  as  well  here,  but  we  ought  to  be  able  to 
make  a  vast  improvement.  We  have  begun  to. 
Since  1904,  when  this  matter  was  first  seriously 
taken  in  hand,  our  infant  mortality  rate  has  de- 

48 


THE  CHILDREN'S  JEWEL  FUND 

clined  from  145  per  1,000  to  91  per  1,000  in  1916. 
This  reduction  has  been  mainly  due  to  the  insti- 
tution of  infant  welfare  centres  and  whole-time 
health  visitors.  Of  centres  there  are  now  nearly 
1,200.  We  want  5,000  more.  Of  visitors  there 
are  now  hardly  1,500.  We  want,  I  am  told,  2,000 
more.  It  is  estimated  that  the  yearly  crop  of 
babies,  700,000,  if  those  of  the  well-to-do  be 
excepted,  can  be  provided  with  infant  welfare 
centres  and  whole-time  health  visitors  by  expen- 
diture at  the  rate  of  £l  a  head  per  year.  The 
Government,  which  is  benevolently  disposed 
towards  the  movement,  gives  half  of  the  annual 
expenditure;  the  other  half  falls  on  the  municipah- 
ties.  But  these  5,000  new  infant  welfare  centres 
and  these  extra  2,000  health  visitors  must  be 
started  by  voluntary  effort  and  subscription. 
Once  started,  the  Government  and  the  mimicipali- 
ties  will  have  to  keep  them  up;  but  unless  we 
start  them,  the  babies  will  go  on  dying  or  grow- 
ing up  diseased.  The  object  of  the  Jewel  Fund, 
therefore,  is  to  secure  the  necessary  money  to  get 
the  work  into  train. 

What  are  these  Infant  Welfare  Centres,  and 
have  they  really  all  this  magic  ?  They  are  places 
where  mothers  to  be,  or  in  being,  can  come  for 
instruction  and  help  in  all  that  concerns  birth 
and  the  care  of  their  babies  and  children  up  to 

49 


THE  CHILDREN'S  JEAVEL  FUND 

school  age.  "Prevention  is  better  than  cure,"  is 
the  motto  of  these  Centres.  I  went  to  one  of 
the  largest  in  London.  It  has  about  600  entries 
in  the  year.  There  were  perhaps  40  babies  and 
children  and  perhaps  30  mothers  there.  About  20 
of  these  mothers  were  learning  sewing  or  knitting. 
Five  of  them  were  sitting  round  a  nurse  who  was 
bathing  a  three-weeks-old  baby.  The  young 
mother  who  can  wash  a  baby  to  the  taste  and 
benefit  of  the  baby  by  the  light  of  nature  must 
clearly  be  something  of  a  phenomenon.  In  a 
room  downstairs  were  certain  little  stoics  whose 
health  was  poor;  they  were  brought  there  daily 
to  be  watched.  One  was  an  air-raid  baby,  the 
thinnest  little  critter  ever  seen;  an  ashen  bit  of  a 
thing  through  which  the  wind  could  blow;  very 
silent,  and  asking  ''Why?"  with  its  eyes.  They 
showed  me  a  mother  who  had  just  lost  her  first 
baby.  The  Centre  was  rescuing  it  from  a  pau- 
per's funeral.  I  can  see  her  now,  coming  in  and 
sitting  on  the  edge  of  a  chair;  the  sudden  pucker- 
ing of  her  dried-up  little  face,  the  tears  rolling 
down.  I  shall  always  remember  the  tone  of  her 
voice — "It's  my  baby."  Her  husband  is  "doing 
time";  and  want  of  food  and  knowledge  while  she 
was  "carrying  it"  caused  the  baby's  death.  Sev- 
eral mothers  from  her  street  come  to  the  Centre; 
but,  "keeping  herself  to  herself,"  she  never  heard 

50 


THE  CHILDREN'S  JEWEL  FUND 

of  it  till  too  late.  In  a  hundred  little  ways  these 
Centres  give  help  and  instruction.  They,  and 
the  Health  Visitors  who  go  along  with  them,  are 
doing  a  great  work;  but  there  are  many  districts 
all  over  the  country  where  there  are  no  Centres 
to  come  to;  no  help  and  instruction  to  be  got, 
however  desperately  wanted.  Verily  this  land  of 
ours  still  goes  like  Rachel  mourning  for  her  chil- 
dren. Disease,  hunger,  deformity,  and  death  still 
hound  our  babes,  and  most  of  that  hounding  is 
avoidable.  We  must  and  shall  revolt  against  the 
evil  lot,  which  preventible  ignorance,  ill  health, 
and  poverty  bring  on  hundreds  of  thousands  of 
children. 

It  is  time  we  had  more  pride.  What  right  have 
we  to  the  word  "civilised"  till  we  give  mothers 
and  children  a  proper  chance?  This  is  but  the 
Alpha  of  decency,  the  first  step  of  progress.  We 
are  beginning  to  realise  that;  but,  even  now,  to 
make  a  full  effort  and  make  it  at  once — we  have 
to  beg  for  jewels. 

What's  a  jewel  beside  a  baby's  life?  What's  a 
toy  to  the  health  and  happy  future  of  these  help- 
less httle  folk  ? 

You  who  wear  jewels,  with  few  exceptions,  are 
or  will  be  mothers — you  ought  to  know.  To  help 
your  own  children  you  would  strip  yourselves. 
But  the  test  is  the  giving  for  children  not  one's 

51 


THE  CHILDREN'S  JEWEL  FUND 

own.  Beneath  all  flaws,  fatuities,  and  failings, 
this,  I  solemnly  believe,  is  the  country  of  the 
great-hearted.  I  beheve  that  the  women  of  our 
race,  before  all  women,  have  a  sense  of  others. 
They  will  not  fail  the  test. 

Lito  the  twilight  of  the  world  are  launched 
each  year  these  myriads  of  tiny  ships.  Under  a 
sky  of  cloud  and  stars  they  grope  out  to  the  great 
waters  and  the  great  winds — Uttle  sloops  of  life, 
on  v/hose  voyaging  the  future  hangs.  They  go 
forth  blind,  feeling  their  way.  Mothers,  and  you 
who  will  be  mothers,  and  you  who  have  missed 
motherhood,  give  them  their  chance,  bless  them 
with  a  gem — flight  their  lanterns  with  your  jewels ! 

1917. 


FRANCE,  1916-1917 

AN  IMPRESSION 

It  was  past  eleven,  and  the  packet  had  been 
steady  some  time  when  we  went  on  deck  and 
found  her  moving  slowly  in  bright  moonlight  up 
the  haven  towards  the  houses  of  Le  Havre.  A 
night  approach  to  a  city  by  water  has  the  qual- 
ity of  other-worldness.  I  remember  the  same 
sensation  twice  before:  coming  in  to  San  Fran- 
cisco from  the  East  by  the  steam-ferry,  and  steal- 
ing into  Abingdon-on-Thames  in  a  rowing-boat. 
Le  Havre  lay,  reaching  up  towards  the  heights, 
still  and  fair,  a  little  mysterious,  with  many 
lights  which  no  one  seemed  using.  It  was  cold, 
but  the  air  already  had  a  different  texture,  drier, 
lighter  than  the  air  we  had  left,  and  one's  heart 
felt  light  and  a  little  excited.  In  the  moonlight 
the  piled-up,  shuttered  houses  had  colouring  like 
that  of  flowers  at  night — pale,  subtle,  mother-o'- 
pearl.  We  moved  slowly  up  beside  the  quay, 
heard  the  first  French  voices,  saw  the  first  French 
faces,  and  went  down  again  to  sleep. 

In  the  MiUtary  Bureau  at  the  station,  with 
what  friendly  politeness  they  exchanged  our  hos- 
pital passes  for  the  necessary  forms;  but  it  took 

53 


FRANCE,   1916-1917 

two  oflScials  ten  minutes  of  hard  writing!  And 
one  thought:  Is  victory  possible  with  all  these 
forms?  It  is  so  throughout  France — too  many 
forms,  too  many  people  to  fill  them  up.  As  if 
France  could  not  trust  herself  without  recording 
in  spidery  handwriting  exactly  where  she  is,  for 
nobody  to  look  at  afterwards.  But  France  could 
trust  herself.    A  pity ! 

Our  only  fellow-traveller  was  not  a  soldier,  but 
had  that  indefinable  look  of  connection  with  the 
war  wrapped  round  almost  everyone  in  France. 
A  wide  land  we  passed,  fallow  under  the  Novem- 
ber sky;  houses  hidden  among  the  square  Nor- 
mandy court-yards  of  tall  trees;  not  many  people 
in  the  fields. 

Paris  is  Paris,  was,  and  ever  shall  be !  Paris  is 
not  France.  If  the  Germans  had  taken  Paris  they 
would  have  occupied  the  bodily  heart,  the  centre 
of  her  circulatory  system;  but  the  spirit  of  France 
their  heavy  hands  would  not  have  clutched,  for 
it  never  dwelt  there.  Paris  is  hard  and  hurried; 
France  is  not.  Paris  loves  pleasure;  France  loves 
life.  Paris  is  a  brilliant  stranger  in  her  own  land. 
And  yet  a  lot  of  true  Frenchmen  and  French- 
women live  there,  and  many  little  plots  of  real 
French  life  are  cultivated. 

At  the  Gare  de  Lyon  poilus  are  taking  trains 
for  the  South.    This  is  our  first  real  sight  of  them 

54 


FRANCE,   1916-1917 

in  their  tired  glory.  They  look  weary  and  dusty 
and  strong;  every  face  has  character,  no  face 
looks  empty  or  as  if  its  thought  were  being  done 
by  others.  Their  laughter  is  not  vulgar  or  thick. 
Alongside  their  faces  the  English  face  looks  stupid, 
the  English  body  angular  and — neat.  They  are 
loaded  with  queer  burdens,  bread  and  bottles 
bulge  their  pockets;  their  blue-grey  is  prettier 
than  khaki,  their  round  helmets  are  becoming. 
Our  Tommies,  even  to  our  own  eyes,  seem  uni- 
formed, but  hardly  two  out  of  all  this  crowd  are 
dressed  alike.  The  French  soldier  luxuriates  in 
extremes;  he  can  go  to  his  death  in  white  gloves 
and  dandyism — he  can  glory  in  unshavenness  and 
patches.  The  words  in  extremis  seem  dear  to  the 
French  soldier;  and,  con  amore,  he  passes  from 
one  extreme  to  the  other.  One  of  them  stands 
gazing  up  at  the  board  which  gives  the  hours  of 
starting  and  the  destinations  of  the  trains.  His 
tired  face  is  charming,  and  has  a  look  that  I  can- 
not describe — lost,  as  it  were,  to  all  surroundings; 
a  Welshman  or  a  Highlander,  but  no  pure  Eng- 
lishman, could  look  like  that. 

Our  carriage  has  four  French  officers;  they  talk 
neither  to  us  nor  to  each  other;  they  sleep,  sitting 
well  back,  hardly  moving  all  night;  one  of  them 
snores  a  little,  but  with  a  certain  politeness.  We 
leave  them  in  the  early  morning  and  get  down 

55 


FRANCE,   1916-1917 

into  the  windy  station  at  Valence.    In  pre-war 
days  romance  began  there  when  one  journeyed. 
A  lovely  word,  and  the  gate  of  the  South.    Soon 
after  Valence  one  used  to  wake  and  draw  aside  a 
comer  of  the  curtain  and  look  at  the  land  in  the 
first  level  sunlight;  a  strange  land  of  plains,  and 
far,  yellowish  hills,  a  land  with  a  dry,  shivering 
wind  over  it,  and  puffs  of  pink  ahnond  blossom. 
But  now  Valence  was  dark,  for  it  was  November, 
and   raining.     In   the   waiting-room   were   three 
tired  soldiers  tr}'ing  to  sleep,  and  one  sitting  up 
awake,  shyly  glad  to  share  our  cakes  and  journals. 
Then  on  through  the  wet  morning  by  the  little 
branch  line  into  Dauphin^.    Two  officers  again 
and  a  civiHan,  in  our  carriage,  are  talking  in  low 
voices  of  the  war,  or  in  higher  voices  of  lodgings 
at  Valence.    One  is  a  commandant,  with  a  hand- 
some paternal  old  face,  broader  than  the  English 
face,  a  little  more  in  love  with  life,  and  a  little 
more  cynical  about  it,  with  more  depth  of  colour- 
ing in  eyes  and  cheeks  and  hair.    The  tone  of 
their  voices,  talking  of  the  war,  is  grave  and 
secret.     "Les  Anglais  ne  lacheront  pas"  are  the 
only  words  I  plainly  hear.     The  younger  officer 
says:  "And  how  would  you  punish?"     The  com- 
mandant's answer  is  inaudible,  but  by  the  twin- 
khng  of  his  eyes  one  knows  it  to  be  human  and 
sagacious.    The  train  winds  on  in  the  windy  wet, 

56 


FRANCE,   1916-1917 

through  foothills  and  then  young  mountains,  fol- 
lowing up  a  swift-flowing  river.  The  chief  trees 
are  bare  Lombardy  poplars.  The  chief  little  town 
is  gathered  round  a  sharp  spur,  with  bare  towers 
on  its  top.  The  colour  everywhere  is  a  brownish- 
grey. 

We  have  arrived.  A  tall,  strong  young  soldier, 
all  white  teeth  and  smiles,  hurries  our  luggage 
out,  a  car  hurries  us  up  in  the  rainy  wind  through 
the  little  town,  down  again  across  the  river,  up  a 
long  avenue  of  pines,  and  we  are  at  our  hospital. 

Round  the  long  table,  at  their  dinner-hour, 
what  a  variety  of  type  among  the  men !  And  yet 
a  likeness,  a  sort  of  quickness  and  sensibility, 
common  to  them  all.  A  few  are  a  little  mefiant  of 
these  newcomers,  with  the  mefiance  of  individual 
character,  not  of  class  distrustfulness,  nor  of  that 
defensive  expressionless  we  cultivate  in  England. 
The  French  soldier  has  a  touch  of  the  child  in 
him — if  we  leave  out  the  Parisians;  a  child  who 
knows  more  than  you  do  perhaps;  a  child  who 
has  Hved  many  lives  before  this  life;  a  wise  child, 
who  jumps  to  3^our  moods  and  shows  you  his 
"sore  fingers"  readily  when  he  feels  that  you 
want  to  see  them.  He  has  none  of  the  perverse 
and  grudging  attitude  towards  his  own  ailments 
that  we  English  foster.  He  is  perhaps  a  little 
inclined  to  pet  them,  treating  them  with  an  odd 

57 


FRANCE,   1916-1917 

mixture  of  stoic  gaiety  and  gloomy  indulgence. 
It  is  like  all  the  rest  of  him;  he  feels  everything  so 
much  quicker  than  we  do — he  is  so  much  more 
impressionable.  The  variety  of  type  is  more 
marked  physically  than  in  our  country.  Here  is 
a  tall  Savoyard  cavalryman,  with  a  maimed  hand 
and  a  fair  moustache  brushed  up  at  the  ends, 
big  and  strong,  with  grey  eyes,  and  a  sort  of  sage 
self-reliance;  only  twenty-six,  but  might  be  forty. 
Here  is  a  real  Latin,  who  was  buried  by  an  ex- 
plosion at  Verdun;  handsome,  with  dark  hair  and 
a  round  head,  and  colour  in  his  cheeks;  an  ironical 
critic  of  everything,  a  Socialist,  a  mocker,  a  fine, 
strong  fellow  with  a  clear  brain,  who  attracts 
women.  Here  are  two  peasants  from  the  Central 
South,  both  with  bad  sciatica,  slower  in  look, 
with  a  mournful,  rather  monkeyish  expression  in 
their  eyes,  as  if  puzzled  by  their  sufferings.  Here 
is  a  true  Frenchman,  a  Territorial,  from  Roanne, 
riddled  with  rheumatism,  quick  and  gay,  and  suf- 
fering, touchy  and  affectionate,  not  tall,  brown- 
faced,  brown-eyed,  rather  fair,  with  clean  jaw 
and  features,  and  eyes  with  a  soul  in  them,  look- 
ing a  little  up ;  forty-eight — the  oldest  of  them  all 
— they  call  him  Grandpere.  And  here  is  a  printer 
from  Lyon  with  shell-shock;  medium-coloured, 
short  and  roundish  and  neat,  full  of  humanity 
and  high  standards  and  domestic  affection,  and 

58 


FRANCE,  1916-1917 

so  polite,  with  eyes  a  little  like  a  dog's.  And  here 
another  with  shell-shock  and  brown-green  eyes, 
from  the  "invaded  countries";  mefiant,  truly,  this 
one,  but  with  a  heart  when  you  get  at  it;  neat, 
and  brooding,  quick  as  a  cat,  nervous,  and  want- 
ing his  own  way.  But  they  are  all  so  varied.  If 
there  are  qualities  common  to  all  they  are  im- 
pressionability and  capacity  for  affection.  This 
is  not  the  impression  left  on  one  by  a  crowd  of 
Englishmen.  Behind  the  politeness  and  civihsed 
bearing  of  the  French  I  used  to  think  there  was 
a  little  of  the  tiger.  In  a  sense  perhaps  there  is, 
but  that  is  not  the  foundation  of  their  character 
— far  from  it !  Underneath  the  tiger,  again,  there 
is  a  man  civilised  for  centuries.  Most  certainly 
the  politeness  of  the  French  is  no  surface  quality, 
it  is  a  polish  welling  up  from  a  naturally  affec- 
tionate heart,  a  naturally  quick  apprehension  of 
the  moods  and  feelings  of  others;  it  is  the  outcome 
of  a  culture  so  old  that,  underneath  all  differences, 
it  binds  together  all  those  types  and  strains  of 
blood — the  Savoyard,  and  the  Southerner,  the 
Latin  of  the  Centre,  the  man  from  the  North,  the 
Breton,  the  Gascon,  the  Basque,  the  Auvergnat, 
even  to  some  extent  the  Norman,  and  the  Pari- 
sian— in  a  sort  of  warm  and  bone-deep  kinship. 
They  have  all,  as  it  were,  sat  for  centuries  under 
a  wall  with  the  afternoon  sun  warming  them 

59 


FRANCE,   1916-1917 

through  and  through,  as  I  so  often  saw  the  old 
town  gossips  sitting  of  an  afternoon.  The  sun 
of  France  has  made  them  aUke;  a  hght  and 
happy  sun,  not  too  southern,  but  just  southern 
enough. 

And  the  women  of  France!  If  the  men  are 
bound  in  that  mysterious  kinship,  how  much 
more  so  are  the  women!  What  is  it  in  the 
Frenchwoman  which  makes  her  so  utterly  unique  ? 
A  daughter  in  one  of  Anatole  France's  books  says 
to  her  mother:  "Tu  es  pour  les  bijoux,  je  suis  pour 
les  dessous."  The  Frenchwoman  spiritually  is 
pour  les  dessous.  There  is  in  her  a  kind  of  in- 
herited, conservative,  clever,  dainty  capabihty; 
no  matter  where  you  go  in  France,  or  in  what 
class — countiy  or  town — you  find  it.  She  can- 
not waste,  she  cannot  spoil,  she  makes  and  shows 
— the  best  of  everything.  If  I  were  asked  for  a 
concrete  illustration  of  self-respect  I  should  say 
— the  Frenchwoman.  It  is  a  particular  kind  of 
self-respect,  no  doubt,  very  much  limited  to  this 
world;  and  perhaps  beginning  to  be  a  little  frayed. 
We  have  some  Frenchwomen  at  the  hospital,  the 
servants  who  keep  us  in  running  order — the  dear 
cook  whom  we  love  not  only  for  her  baked  meats, 
proud  of  her  soldier  son  once  a  professor,  now  a 
sergeant,  and  she  a  woman  of  property,  with 
two  houses  in  the  little  town;  patient,  kind,  \evy 

60 


FRANCE,   1916-1917 

stubborn  about  her  dishes,  which  have  in  them 
the  essential  juices  and  savours  which  character- 
ise all  things  really  French.    She  has  great  sweet- 
ness and  self-containment  in  her  small,  wrinkled, 
yellowish  face;  always  quietly  polite  and  grave, 
she  bubbles  deliciously  at  any  joke,  and  gives 
affection   sagaciously    to    those   who    merit.     A 
jewel,   who  must  be  doing  something  'pour  la 
France.    And  we  have  Madame  Jeanne  Camille, 
mother  of  two  daughters  and  one  son,  too  young 
to  be  a  soldier.    It  was  her  eldest  daughter  who 
wanted  to  come  and  scrub  in  the  hospital,  but 
was  refused  because  she  was  too  pretty.    And 
her  mother  came  instead.    A  woman  who  did 
not  need  to  come,  and  nearly  fifty,  but  strong, 
as  the  French  are  strong,  with  good  red  blood, 
deep  colouring,  hair  still  black,  and  handsome 
straight  features.    What  a  worker!    A  lover  of 
talk,  too,  and  of  a  joke  when  she  has  time.    And 
Claire,   of  a  languissante  temperament,   as  she 
says;  but  who  would  know  it?    Eighteen,  with  a 
figure  abundant  as  that  of  a  woman  of  forty,  but 
just  beginning  to  fine  down;  holding  herself  as 
French  girls  learn  to  hold  themselves  so  young; 
and  with  the  pretty  e3'es  of  a  Southern  nymph, 
clear-brown  and  understanding,  and  a  little  bit 
wood-wild.    Not  self-conscious — like  the  English 
girl  at  that  age — fond  of  work  and  play;  with 

61 


FRANCE,   1916-1917 

what  is  called  ''a  good  head"  on  her,  and  a  warm 
heart.    A  real  woman  of  France. 

Then  there  is  the  "farmeress"  at  the  home 
farm  which  gives  the  hospital  its  milk;  a  splendid, 
grey-eyed  creature,  doing  the  work  of  her  hus- 
band who  is  at  the  front,  with  a  little  girl  and 
boy  rounder  and  rosier  than  anything  you  ever 
saw;  and  a  small,  one-eyed  brother-in-law  who 
drinks.  My  God,  he  drinks!  Any  day  you  go 
into  the  town  to  do  hospital  commissions  you 
may  see  the  hospital  donkey-cart  with  the  charm- 
ing grey  donkey  outside  the  Cafe  de  I'Univers  or 
what  not,  and  know  that  Charles  is  within.  He 
beguiles  our  poilus,  and  they  take  little  beguiling. 
Wine  is  too  plentiful  in  France.  The  sun  in  the 
wines  of  France  quickens  and  cheers  the  blood  in 
the  veins  of  France.  But  the  gift  of  wine  is 
abused.  One  may  see  a  poster  which  says — with 
what  truth  I  know  not — that  drink  has  cost 
France  more  than  the  Franco-Prussian  War. 
French  drunkenness  is  not  so  sottish  as  our  beer- 
and-whiskey-fuddled  variety,  but  it  is  not  pleas- 
ant to  see,  and  mars  a  fair  land. 

What  a  fair  land !  I  never  before  grasped  the 
charm  of  French  colouring;  the  pinkish-yellow  of 
the  pan-tiled  roofs,  the  lavender-grey  or  dim 
green  of  the  shutters,  the  self-respecting  shapes 
and  flatness  of  the  houses,  unworried  by  wriggling 

62 


FRANCE,   1916-1917 

ornamentation  or  lines  coming  up  in  order  that 
they  may  go  down  again;  the  universal  plane 
trees  with  their  variegated  trunks  and  dancing 
lightness — nothing  more  charming  than  plane  trees 
in  winter,  their  delicate  twigs  and  little  brown 
balls  shaking  against  the  clear  pale  skies,  and  in 
summer  nothing  more  green  and  beautiful  than 
their  sun-flecked  shade.  Each  country  has  its 
special  genius  of  colouring — best  displayed  in 
winter.  To  characterise  such  genius  by  a  word 
or  two  is  hopeless;  but  one  might  say  the  genius 
of  Spain  is  brown;  of  Ireland  green;  of  England 
chalky  blue-green;  of  Egj^pt  shimmering  sand- 
stone. For  France  amethystine  feebly  expresses 
the  sensation;  the  blend  is  subtle,  stimulating, 
rarefied — at  all  events  in  the  centre  and  south. 
Walk  into  an  English  village,  however  beautiful — 
and  many  are  very  beautiful — ^you  will  not  get 
the  peculiar  sharp  spiritual  sensation  which  will 
come  on  you  entering  some  little  French  village 
or  town — the  sensation  one  has  looking  at  a  pic- 
ture by  Francesca.  The  blue  wood-smoke,  the 
pinkish  tiles,  the  grey  shutters,  the  grey-brown 
plane  trees,  the  pale  blue  sky,  the  yellowish 
houses,  and  above  all  the  clean  forms  and  the 
clear  air.  I  shall  never  forget  one  late  afternoon 
rushing  home  in  the  car  from  some  commission. 
The  setting  sun  had  just  broken  through  after  a 

63 


FRANCE,   1916-1917 

misty  day,  the  mountains  were  illumined  with 
purple  and  rose-madder,  and  snow-tipped  against 
the  blue  sky,  a  wonderful  wistaria  blue  drifted 
smoke-like  about  the  valley;  and  the  tall  trees — 
poplars  and  cypresses — stood  like  spires.  No 
wonder  the  French  are  spirituel,  a  word  so  dif- 
ferent from  our  "spiritual,"  for  that  they  are  not; 
pre-eminently  citizens  of  this  world — even  the 
pious  French.  This  is  why  on  the  whole  they 
make  a  better  fist  of  social  life  than  we  do,  we 
misty  islanders,  only  half-alive  because  we  set 
such  store  by  our  unrealised  moralities.  Not  one 
Englishman  in  ten  now  really  believes  that  he  is 
going  to  live  again,  but  his  disbelief  has  not  yet 
reconciled  him  to  making  the  best  of  this  life,  or 
laid  ghosts  of  the  beliefs  he  has  outworn.  Clear 
air  and  sun,  but  not  so  much  as  to  paralyse  action, 
have  made  in  France  clearer  eyes,  clearer  brains, 
and  touched  souls  with  a  sane  cynicism.  The 
French  do  not  despise  and  neglect  the  means  to 
ends.  They  face  sexual  realities.  They  know 
that  to  live  well  they  must  eat  well,  to  eat  well 
must  cook  well,  to  cook  well  must  cleanly  and 
cleverly  cultivate  their  soil.  May  France  be 
warned  in  time  by  our  dismal  fate!  May  she 
never  lose  her  love  of  the  land ;  nor  let  industrial- 
ism absorb  her  peasantry,  and  the  lure  of  wealth 
and  the  cheap  glamour  of  the  towns  draw  her 

04 


FRANCE,   1916-1917 

into  their  uncharmed  circles.  We  English  have 
rattled  deep  into  a  paradise  of  machines,  chim- 
neys, cinemas,  and  halfpenn}^  papers;  have  bar- 
tered our  heritage  of  health,  dignity,  and  looks 
for  wealth,  and  badly  distributed  wealth  at  that. 
France  was  trembling  on  the  verge  of  the  same 
precipice  when  the  war  came;  with  its  death  and 
wind  of  restlessness  the  war  bids  fair  to  tip  her 
over.  Let  her  hold  back  with  all  her  might! 
Her  two  dangers  are  drink  and  the  lure  of  the 
big  towns.  No  race  can  preserve  sanity  and  re- 
finement which  really  gives  way  to  these.  She 
will  not  fare  even  as  well  as  we  have  if  she  yields; 
our  fibre  is  coarser  and  more  resistant  than  hers, 
nor  had  we  ever  so  much  grace  to  lose.  It  is  by 
grace  and  self-respect  that  France  had  her  pre- 
eminence; let  these  wither,  as  wither  they  must 
in  the  grip  of  a  sordid  and  drink-soothed  indus- 
triahsm,  and  her  star  will  burn  out.  The  life  of 
the  peasant  is  hard;  peasants  are  soon  wrinkled 
and  weathered;  the}^  are  not  angels;  narrow  and 
over-provident,  suspicious,  and  given  to  drink, 
they  still  have  their  roots  and  being  in  the  reali- 
ties of  life,  close  to  nature,  and  keep  a  sort  of 
simple  dignity  and  health  which  great  towns 
destroy.  Let  France  take  care  of  her  peasants 
and  her  country  will  take  care  of  itself. 
Talking  to  our  poilus  we  remarked  that  they 
65 


FRANCE,   1916-1917 

have  not  a  good  word  to  throw  to  their  deputes 
— no  faith  in  them.  About  French  poHticians  I 
know  nothing ;  but  their  shoes  are  unenviable,  and 
will  become  too  tight  for  them  after  the  war. 
The  poilu  has  no  faith  at  all  now,  if  he  ever  had, 
save  faith  in  his  country,  so  engrained  that  he 
lets  the  Hfe-loving  blood  of  him  be  spilled  out  to 
the  last  drop,  cursing  himself  and  everything  for 
his  heroic  folly. 

We  had  a  young  Spaniard  of  the  Foreign  Legion 
in  our  hospital  who  had  been  to  Cambridge,  and 
had  the  "outside"  eyes  on  all  things  French.  In 
his  view  je  m'en  foutism  has  a  hold  of  the  French 
army.  Strange  if  it  had  not!  Clear,  quick 
brains  cannot  stand  Fate's  making  ninepins  of 
mankind  year  after  year  like  this.  Fortunately 
for  France,  the  love  of  her  sons  has  never  been 
forced;  it  has  grown  like  grass  and  simple  wild 
herbs  in  the  heart,  alongside  the  liberty  to  criti- 
cise and  blame.  The  poilu  cares  for  nothing,  no, 
not  he!  But  he  is  himself  a  little,  unconscious 
bit  of  France,  and,  for  oneself,  one  always  cares. 
State-forced  patriotism  made  this  war — a  fever- 
germ  which  swells  the  head  and  causes  blindness. 
A  State  which  teaches  patriotism  in  its  schools  is 
going  mad !  Let  no  such  State  be  trusted ! 
They  who,  after  the  war,  would  have  England 
and  France  copy  the  example  of  the  State-drilled 

66 


FRANCE,   191&-1917 

country  which  opened  these  flood-gates  of  death, 
and  teach  mad  provinciaHsm  under  the  nickname 
of  patriotism  to  their  children,  are  driving  nails 
into  the  coffins  of  their  countries.  Je  m'enfoutism 
is  a  natural  product  of  three  years  of  war,  and 
better  by  far  than  the  docile  despair  to  which  so 
many  German  soldiers  have  been  reduced.  We 
were  in  Lyon  when  the  Russian  Revolution  and 
the  German  retreat  from  Bapaume  were  reported. 
The  town  and  railway  station  were  full  of  soldiers. 
No  enthusiasm,  no  stir  of  any  kind,  only  the  usual 
tired  stoicism.  And  one  thought  of  what  the 
poilu  can  be  like;  of  our  Christmas  dinner-table 
at  the  hospital  under  the  green  hanging  wreaths 
and  the  rosy  Chinese  lanterns,  the  hum,  the  chat- 
ter, the  laughter  of  free  and  easy  souls  in  their 
red  hospital  jackets.  The  French  are  so  easily, 
so  incorrigibly  gay;  the  dreary  grinding  pressure 
of  this  war  seems  horribly  cruel  applied  to  such  a 
people,  and  the  heroism  with  which  they  have 
borne  its  untold  miseries  is  sublime.  In  our  little 
remote  town  out  there — a  town  which  had  been 
Roman  in  its  time,  and  still  had  bits  of  Roman 
walls  and  Roman  arches — ever}'  family  had  its 
fathers,  brothers,  sons,  dead,  fighting,  in  prison,  or 
in  hospital.  The  mothers  were  wonderful.  One 
old  couple,  in  a  ferblanterie  shop,  who  had  lost 
their  eldest  son  and  whose  other  son  was  at  the 

67 


FRANCE,   1916-1917 

front,  used  to  try  hard  not  to  talk  about  the  war, 
but  sure  enough  they  would  come  to  it  at  last,  each 
time  we  saw  them,  and  in  a  minute  the  mother 
would  be  crying  and  a  silent  tear  would  roll  down 
the  old  father's  face.  Then  he  would  point  to  the 
map  and  say:  ''But  look  where  they  are,  the 
Boches!  Can  we  stop?  It's  impossible.  We 
must  go  on  till  we've  thrown  them  out.  It  is 
dreadful,  but  what  would  you  have  ?  Ah !  Our 
son — he  was  so  promising!"  And  the  mother, 
weeping  over  the  tin-tacks,  would  make  the  neat- 
est little  parcel  of  them,  murmuring  out  of  her 
tears:  " II  faut  que  gafinisse;  mats  la  France — il 
ne  faut  pas  que  la  France — Nos  chers  fils  auraient 
ete  tues  pour  rien!"  Poor  souls!  I  remember 
another  couple  up  on  the  hillside.  The  old  wife, 
dignified  as  a  duchess — if  duchesses  are  dignified — 
wanting  us  so  badly  to  come  in  and  sit  down  that 
she  might  the  better  talk  to  us  of  her  sons:  one 
dead,  and  one  wounded,  and  two  still  at  the  front, 
and  the  youngest  not  yet  old  enough.  And  while 
we  stood  there  up  came  the  father,  an  old  fanner, 
with  that  youngest  son.  He  had  not  quite  the 
spirit  of  the  old  lady,  nor  her  serenity;  he  thought 
that  men  in  these  days  were  no  better  than  des 
Mtes  feroces.  And  in  truth  his  philosophj^ — of  an 
old  tiller  of  the  soil — ^was  as  superior  to  that  of 
emperors  and  diplomats  as  his  life  is  superior  to 

68 


FRANCE,   1916-1917 

theirs.  Not  very  far  from  that  httle  farm  is  the 
spot  of  all  others  in  that  mountain  country  which 
most  stirs  the  aesthetic  and  the  speculative  strains 
within  one.  Lovely  and  remote,  all  by  itself  at 
the  foot  of  a  mountain,  in  a  circle  of  the  hills, 
an  old  monaster^'  stands,  now  used  as  a  farm, 
with  one  rose  window,  like  a  spider's  web,  spun 
delicate  in  stone  tracery.  There  the  old  monks 
had  gone  to  get  away  from  the  struggles  of  the 
main  valley  and  the  surges  of  the  fighting  men. 
There  even  now  were  traces  of  their  peaceful 
life;  the  fish-ponds  and  the  tillage  still  kept  in 
cultivation.  If  they  had  lived  in  these  days 
they  would  have  been  at  the  war,  fighting  or 
bearing  stretchers,  like  the  priests  of  France,  of 
whom  eleven  thousand,  I  am  told — untruthfully, 
I  hope — are  dead.  So  the  world  goes  forward — 
the  Kingdom  of  Heaven  comes ! 

We  were  in  the  town  the  day  that  the  19 IS 
class  received  their  preliminary  summons.  Sad 
were  the  mothers  watching  their  boys  parading 
the  streets,  rosetted  and  singing  to  show  that 
they  had  passed  and  were  ready  to  be  food  for 
cannon.  Not  one  of  those  boys,  I  dare  say,  in  his 
heart  wanted  to  go;  they  have  seen  too  many  of 
their  brethren  return  war-worn,  missed  too  many 
who  will  never  come  back.  But  they  were  no  less 
gay  about  it  than  those  recruits  we  saw  in  the 

69 


FRANCE,   1916-1917 

spring  of  1913,  at  Argeles  in  the  Pyrenees,  singing 
along  and  shouting  on  the  day  of  their  enrolment. 
There  were  other  reminders  to  us,  and  to  the 
little  town,  of  the  blood-red  line  drawn  across  the 
map  of  France.  We  had  in  our  hospital  men 
from  the  invaded  countries  without  news  of  wives 
and  families  mured  up  behind  that  iron  veil. 
Once  in  a  way  a  tiny  word  would  get  through  to 
them,  and  anxiety  would  lift  a  little  from  their 
hearts;  for  a  day  or  two  they  would  smile.  One 
we  had,  paralysed  in  the  legs,  who  would  sit  doing 
macrame  work  and  playing  chess  all  day  long; 
every  relative  he  had — wife,  father,  mother,  sis- 
ters— all  were  in  the  power  of  the  German.  As 
brave  a  nature  as  one  could  see  in  a  year's  march, 
touchingly  grateful,  touchingly  cheerful,  but  with 
the  saddest  eyes  I  ever  saw.  There  was  one  lit- 
tle reminder  in  the  town  whom  we  could  never 
help  going  in  to  look  at  whenever  we  passed  the 
shop  whose  people  had  given  her  refuge.  A  little 
girl  of  eight  with  the  most  charming,  grave,  pale, 
little,  grey-eyed  face;  there  she  would  sit,  playing 
with  her  doll,  watching  the  customers.  That  lit- 
tle refugee  at  all  events  was  beloved  and  happy; 
only  I  think  she  thought  we  would  kidnap  her 
one  day — we  stared  at  her  so  hard.  She  had  the 
quality  which  gives  to  certain  faces  the  fascina- 
tion belonging  to  rare  works  of  art. 

70 


FRANCE,   1916-1917 

With  all  this  poignant  bereavement  and  long- 
suffering  amongst  them  it  would  be  odd  indeed  if 
the  gay  and  critical  French  nature  did  not  rebel, 
and  seek  some  outlet  in  apathy  or  bitter  criticism. 
The  miracle  is  that  they  go  on  and  on  holding 
fast.  Easily  depressed,  and  as  easily  lifted  up 
again,  grumble  they  must  and  will;  but  their 
hearts  are  not  really  down  to  the  pitch  of  their 
voices;  their  love  of  country,  which  with  them  is 
love  of  self — the  deepest  of  all  kinds  of  patriotism 
— is  too  absolute.  These  two  virtues  or  vices  (as 
you  please) — critical  faculty  and  amour  propre 
or  vanity,  if  you  prefer  it — are  in  perpetual  en- 
counter. The  French  are  at  once  not  at  all 
proud  of  themselves  and  very  proud.  They  de- 
stroy all  things  French,  themselves  included,  with 
their  brains  and  tongues,  and  exalt  the  same  with 
their  hearts  and  by  their  actions.  To  the  re- 
served English  mind,  always  on  the  defensive, 
they  seem  to  give  themselves  away  continually; 
but  he  who  understands  sees  it  to  be  all  part  of 
that  perpetual  interplay  of  opposites  which  makes 
up  the  French  character  and  secures  for  it  in 
effect  a  curious  vibrating  equilibrium.  "In- 
tensely alive"  is  the  chief  impression  one  has  of 
the  French.  They  balance  between  head  and 
heart  at  top  speed  in  a  sort  of  electric  and  eternal 
see-saw.    It  is  this  peipetual  quick  change  which 

71 


FRANCE,   1916-1917 

gives  them,  it  seems  to  me,  their  special  grip  on 
actuality;  they  never  fly  into  the  cloud-regions  of 
theories  and  dreams;  their  heads  have  not  time 
before  their  hearts  have  intervened,  their  hearts 
not  time  before  their  heads  cry:  "Hold !"  They 
apprehend  both  worlds,  but  with  such  rapid 
alternation  that  they  surrender  to  neither.  Con- 
sider how  clever  and  comparatively  warm  is  that 
cold  thing  "religion"  in  France.  I  remember  so 
well  the  old  cure  of  our  little  town  coming  up  to 
lunch,  his  interest  in  the  cooking,  in  the  practical 
matters  of  our  hfe,  and  in  wider  affairs  too;  his 
enjoyment  of  his  coffee  and  cigarette;  and  the 
curious  suddenness  with  which  something  seemed 
"to  come  over  him" — one  could  hear  his  heart 
saying:  "0  my  people,  here  am  I  wasting  my 
time;  I  must  run  to  you."  I  saw  him  in  the 
court-yard  talking  to  one  of  our  poilus,  not  about 
his  soul,  but  about  his  body;  stroking  his  shoulder 
softly  and  calling  him  mon  cher  fils.  Dear  old 
man!  Even  religion  here  does  not  pretend  to 
more  than  it  can  achieve — help  and  consolation 
to  the  bewildered  and  the  suffering.  It  uses 
forms,  smiling  a  little  at  them. 

The  secret  of  French  culture  lies  in  this  vibrat- 
ing balance;  from  quick  marriage  of  mind  and 
heart,  reason  and  sense,  in  the  French  nature,  all 
the  clear  created  forms  of  French  Hfe  arise,  forms 

72 


FRANCE,   1916-1917 

recognised  as  forms  with  definite  utility  attached. 
Controlled  expression  is  the  result  of  action  and 
reaction.  Controlled  expression  is  the  essence 
of  culture,  because  it  alone  makes  a  sufficiently 
clear  appeal  in  a  world  which  is  itself  the  result 
of  the  innumerable  interplay  of  complementaiy 
or  dual  laws  and  forces.  French  culture  is  near 
to  the  real  heart  of  things,  because  it  has  a  sort 
of  quick  sanity  which  never  loses  its  way;  or, 
when  it  does,  very  rapidly  recovers  the  middle 
of  the  road.  It  has  the  two  capital  defects  of  its 
virtues.  It  is  too  fond  of  forms  and  too  mistrust- 
ful. The  French  nature  is  sane  and  cynical. 
Well,  it's  natural !  The  French  lie  just  halfway 
between  north  and  south;  their  blood  is  too 
mingled  for  enthusiasm,  and  their  culture  too 
old. 

I  never  realised  how  old  France  was  till  we 
went  to  Aries.  In  our  crowded  train  poilus  were 
packed,  standing  in  the  corridors.  One  very 
weary,  invited  by  a  high  and  kindly  colonel  into 
our  carriage,  chatted  in  his  tired  voice  of  how 
wonderfully  the  women  kept  the  work  going  on 
the  farms.  "When  we  get  a  fortnight's  leave," 
he  said,  "all  goes  well,  we  can  do  the  hea\'y  things 
the  women  cannot,  and  the  land  is  made  clean. 
It  wants  that  fortnight  now  and  then,  mon  colonel; 
there  is  work  on  farms  that  women  cannot  do." 

73 


FRANCE,   1916-1917 

And  the  colonel  vehemently  nodded  his  thin  face. 
We  alighted  in  the  dark  among  southern  forms 
and  voices,  and  the  little  hotel  omnibus  became 
enmeshed  at  once  in  old,  high,  very  narrow, 
Italian-seeming  streets.  It  was  Sunday  next  day; 
sunny,  with  a  clear  blue  sky.  In  the  square  be- 
fore our  hotel  a  simple  crowd  round  the  statue  of 
Mistral  chattered  or  listened  to  a  girl  singing 
excruciating  songs;  a  crowd  as  old-looking  as  in 
Italy  or  Spain,  aged  as  things  only  are  in  the 
South.  We  walked  up  to  the  Arena.  Quite  a 
recent  development  in  the  life  of  Aries,  they  say, 
that  marvellous  Roman  building,  here  cut  down, 
there  built  up,  by  Saracen  hands.  For  a  thou- 
sand years  or  more  before  the  Romans  came 
Aries  flourished  and  was  civilised.  What  had  we 
mushroom  islanders  before  the  Romans  came? 
What  had  barbaric  Prussia?  Not  even  the  Ro- 
mans to  look  forward  to !  The  age-long  life  of 
the  South  stands  for  much  in  modem  France, 
correcting  the  cruder  blood  which  has  poured  in 
these  last  fifteen  hundred  years.  As  one  blends 
wine  of  very  old  stock  with  newer  brands,  so  has 
France  been  blended  and  mellowed.  A  strange 
cosmic  feeling  one  had,  on  the  top  of  the  great 
building  in  that  town  older  than  Rome  itself,  of 
the  continuity  of  human  life  and  the  futility  of 
human  conceit.    The  provincial  vanity  of  mod- 

74 


FRANCE,   1916-1917 

em  States  looked  pitiful  in  the  clear  air  above 
that  vast  stony  proof  of  age. 

In  many  ways  the  war  has  brought  us  up  all 
standing  on  the  edge  of  an  abyss.  When  it  is 
over  shall  we  go  galloping  over  the  edge,  or,  rein- 
ing back,  sit  awhile  in  our  saddles  looking  for  a 
better  track?  We  were  all  on  the  highway  to  a 
hell  of  material  expansion  and  vulgarity,  of  cheap 
immediate  profit,  and  momentary'  sensation; 
north  and  south  in  our  different  ways,  all  "rat- 
tling into  barbarity."  Shall  we  find  our  way 
again  into  a  finer  air,  where  self-respect,  not  profit, 
rules,  and  rare  things  and  durable  are  made  once 
more? 

From  Aries  we  journeyed  to  Marseilles,  to  see 
how  the  first  cosmopolitan  town  in  the  world 
fared  in  war-time.  Here  was  an  amazing  spec- 
tacle of  swarming  life.  If  France  has  reason  to 
feel  the  war  most  of  all  the  great  countries,  Mar- 
seilles must  surely  feel  it  less  than  any  other 
great  town;  she  flourishes  in  a  perfect  riot  of 
movement  and  colour.  Here  all  the  tribes  are 
met,  save  those  of  Central  Europe — Frenchman, 
Serb,  Spaniard,  Algerian,  Greek,  Arab,  Khabyle, 
Russian,  Indian,  Italian,  Englishman,  Scotsman, 
Jew,  and  Nubian  rub  shoulders  in  the  thronged 
streets.  The  miles  of  docks  are  crammed  with 
ships.    Food  of  all  sorts  abounds.     In  the  bright, 

75 


FRANCE,   1916-1917 

dry  light  all  is  gay  and  busy.  The  most  aesthetic, 
and  perhaps  most  humiliating,  sight  that  a  West- 
erner could  see  we  came  on  there :  two  Arab  Spahis 
walking  down  the  main  street  in  their  long  robe 
uniforms,  white  and  red,  and  their  white  linen 
bonnets  bound  with  a  dark  fur  and  canting 
slightly  backwards.  Over  six  feet  high,  they 
moved  unhurrying,  smoking  their  cigarettes, 
turning  their  necks  slowly  from  side  to  side  like 
camels  of  the  desert.  Their  brown,  thin,  bearded 
faces  wore  neither  scorn  nor  interest,  only  a 
superb  self-containment;  but,  beside  them,  every 
other  specimen  of  the  human  race  seemed  cheap 
and  negligible.  God  knows  of  what  they  were 
thinking — as  little  probably  as  the  smoke  they 
blew  through  their  chiselled  nostrils — but  their 
beauty  and  grace  were  unsurpassable.  And, 
visioning  our  western  and  northern  towns  and  the 
little,  white,  worried  abortions  they  breed,  one 
felt  downcast  and  abashed. 

Marseilles  swarmed  with  soldiers;  Lyon,  Va- 
lence, Aries,  even  the  smallest  cities  swarmed  with 
soldiers,  and  this  at  the  moment  when  the  Allied 
offensive  was  just  beginning.  If  France  be  Hear- 
ing the  end  of  her  man-power,  as  some  assert,  she 
conceals  it  so  that  one  would  think  she  was  at 
the  beginning. 

From  Marseilles  we  went  to  Lyon.  I  have 
76 


FRANCE,   1916-1917 

heard  that  town  described  as  lamentably  plain; 
but  compared  with  Manchester  or  Sheffield  it  is 
as  heaven  to  hell.  Between  its  two  wide  rolling: 
rivers,  under  a  line  of  heights,  it  has  somewhat 
the  aspect  of  an  enormous  commerciahsed  Flor- 
ence. Perhaps  in  foggy  weather  it  may  be 
dreary,  but  the  sky  was  blue  and  the  sun  shone, 
a  huge  Foire  was  just  opening,  and  every  street 
bustled  in  a  dignified  manner. 

The  English  have  always  had  a  vague  idea  that 
France  is  an  immoral  country.  To  the  eye  of  a 
mere  visitor  France  is  the  most  moral  of  the  four 
Great  Powers — France,  Russia,  England,  Ger- 
many; has  the  strongest  family  life  and  the  most 
seemly  streets.  Young  men  and  maidens  are 
never  seen  walking  or  l}qng  about,  half-embraced, 
as  in  puritanical  England.  Fire  is  not  played 
with — openly,  at  least.  The  slow-fly  amorous- 
ness of  the  British  working  classes  evidently  does 
not  suit  the  quicker  blood  of  France.  There  is 
just  enough  of  the  South  in  the  French  to  keep 
demonstration  of  affection  away  from  daylight. 
A  certain  school  of  French  novelist,  with  high- 
coloured  tales  of  Parisian  life,  is  responsible  for 
his  country's  reputation.  Whatever  the  French- 
man about  town  may  be,  he  seems  by  no  means 
typical  of  the  many  millions  of  Frenchmen  who 
are  not  about  town.    And  if  Frenchwomen,  as  I 

77 


FRANCE,   1916-1917 

have  heard  Frenchmen  say,  are  legeres,  they  are 
the  best  mothers  in  the  world,  and  their  "hght- 
ness"  is  not  vulgarly  obtruded.  They  say  many 
domestic  tragedies  will  be  played  at  the  conclu- 
sion of  the  war.  If  so,  they  will  not  be  played 
in  France  alone;  and  compared  with  the  tragedies 
of  fidehty  played  all  these  dreadful  years  they 
will  be  as  black  rabbits  to  brown  for  numbers. 
For  the  truth  on  morality  in  France  we  must  go 
back,  I  suspect,  to  that  general  conclusion  about 
the  French  character — the  swift  passage  from 
head  to  heart  and  back  again,  which,  prohibiting 
extremes  of  puritanism  and  of  licence,  preserves 
a  sort  of  balance. 

From  this  war  France  will  emerge  changed, 
though  less  changed  very  likely  than  any  other 
country.  A  certain  self-sufficiency  that  was  very 
marked  about  French  life  will  have  sloughed 
away.  I  expect  an  opening  of  the  doors,  a  tol- 
eration of  other  tastes  and  standards,  a  soft- 
ening of  the  too  narrow  definiteness  of  French 
opinion. 

Even  Paris  has  opened  her  heart  a  Httle  since 
the  war;  and  the  heart  of  Paris  is  close,  hard,  im- 
patient of  strangers.  We  noticed  in  our  hospital 
that  whenever  we  had  a  Parisian  he  introduced  a 
different  atmosphere,  and  led  us  a  quiet  or  noisy 
dance.    We  had  one  whose  name  was  Aime, 

78 


FRANCE,  1916-1917 

whose  skin  was  like  a  baby's,  who  talked  softly 
and  fast,  with  Httle  grunts,  and  before  he  left  was 
quite  the  leading  personality.  We  had  another, 
a  red-haired  young  one;  when  he  was  away  on 
leave  we  hardly  knew  the  hospital,  it  was  so 
orderly.  The  sons  of  Paris  are  a  breed  apart, 
just  as  our  Cockneys  are.  I  do  not  pretend  to 
fathom  them;  they  have  the  texture  and  resilience 
of  an  indiarubber  ball.  And  the  women  of  Paris ! 
Heaven  forfend  that  I  should  say  I  know  them ! 
They  are  a  sealed  book.  Still,  even  Parisians  are 
less  intolerant  than  in  pre-war  days  of  us  dull 
Enghsh,  perceiving  in  us,  perhaps,  a  certain  un- 
expected usefulness.  And,  a  propos  !  One  hears 
it  said  that  in  the  regions  of  our  British  armies 
certain  natives  believe  we  have  come  to  stay. 
What  an  intensely  comic  notion !  And  what  a 
lurid  light  it  throws  on  history,  on  the  mistrust 
engendered  between  nations,  on  the  cynicism 
which  human  conduct  has  forced  deep  into  human 
hearts.  No!  If  a  British  Government  could  be 
imagined  behaving  in  such  a  way,  the  British 
population  would  leave  England,  become  French 
citizens,  and  help  to  turn  out  the  damned  in- 
truders ! 

But  we  did  not  encounter  anywhere  that  comic 
belief.  In  all  this  land  of  France,  chockful  of 
those  odd  creatures,  English  men  and  women,  we 

79 


FRANCE,  1916-1917 

found  only  a  wonderful  and  touching  welcome. 
Not  once  during  those  long  months  of  winter  was 
an  unfriendly  word  spoken  in  our  hearing;  not 
once  were  we  treated  with  anything  but  true 
politeness  and  cordiality.  Poilus  and  peasants, 
porters  and  officials,  ladies,  doctors,  servants, 
shop-folk,  were  always  considerate,  always 
friendly,  always  desirous  that  we  should  feel  at 
home.  The  very  dogs  gave  us  welcome !  A  lit- 
tle black  half-Pomeranian  came  uninvited  and 
made  his  home  with  us  m  our  hospital;  we  called 
him  Aristide.  But  on  our  walks  with  him  we 
were  liable  to  meet  a  posse  of  children  who  would 
exclaim,  ^'Pom-pom!  Voild  Pom-pom !"  and 
lead  him  away.  Before  night  fell  he  would  be 
with  us  again,  with  a  bit  of  string  or  ribbon,  bit- 
ten through,  dangling  from  his  collar.  His  chil- 
dren bored  him  terribly.  We  left  him  in  trust  to 
our  poilus  on  that  sad  afternoon  when  "Good- 
b3'e"  must  be  said,  all  those  friendly  hands  shaken 
for  the  last  time,  and  the  friendly  faces  left. 
Through  the  little  town  the  car  bore  us,  away 
along  the  valley  between  the  poplar  trees  with 
the  first  flush  of  spring  on  their  twigs,  and  the 
magpies  flighting  across  the  road  to  the  river- 
bank. 

The  heart  of  France  is  deep  within  her  breast; 
she  wears  it  not  upon  her  sleeve.    But  France 

80 


FRANCE,  1916-1917 

opened  her  heart  for  once  and  let  us  see  the 
gold. 

And  so  we  came  forth  from  France  of  a  rainy 
day,  leaving  half  our  hearts  behind  us. 

1917. 


Bl 


ENGLISHMAN  AND  RUSSIAN 

It  has  been  my  conviction  for  many  years  that 
the  Russian  and  the  Englishman  are  as  it  were 
the  complementary  halves  of  a  man.  What  the 
Russian  lacks  the  Englishman  has;  what  the  Eng- 
lishman lacks,  that  has  the  Russian.  The  works 
of  Gogol,  Turgenev,  Dostoievsky,  Tolstoi,  Tche- 
kov — the  amazing  direct  and  truthful  revelations 
of  these  masters — has  let  me,  I  think,  into  some 
secrets  of  the  Russian  soul,  so  that  the  Russians 
I  have  met  seem  rather  clearer  to  me  than  men 
and  women  of  other  foreign  countries.  For  their 
construing  I  have  been  given  what  schoolboys 
call  a  crib.  Only  a  fool  pretends  to  knowledge — 
the  heart  of  another  is  surely  a  dark  forest;  but 
the  heart  of  a  Russian  seems  to  me  a  forest  less 
dark  than  many,  partly  because  the  quahties  and 
defects  of  a  Russian  impact  so  sharply  on  the 
perceptions  of  an  Englishman,  but  partly  because 
those  great  Russian  novelists  in  whom  I  have 
delighted,  possess,  before  all  other  gifts,  so  deep 
a  talent  for  the  revelation  of  truth.  In  following 
out  this  apposition  of  the  Russian  and  the  Eng- 
lishman, one  may  well  start  with  that  little  mat- 
ter of  "truth."    The  Englishman  has  what  I 

82 


ENGLISHMAN  AND  RUSSIAN 

would  call  a  passion  for  the  forms  of  truth;  his 
word  is  his  bond— nearly  always;  he  will  not  tell 
a  he — not  often;  honesty,  in  his  idiom,  is  the  best 
policy.  But  he  has  little  or  no  regard  for  the 
spirit  of  truth.  Quite  unconsciously  he  revels  in 
self-deception  and  flies  from  knowledge  of  any- 
thing which  will  injure  his  intention  to  ''make 
good/'  as  Americans  say.  He  is,  before  all  things, 
a  competitive  soul  who  seeks  to  win  rather  than 
to  understand  or  to  ''live."  And  to  win,  or, 
shall  we  say,  to  maintain  to  oneself  the  illusion 
of  winning,  one  must  carefully  avoid  seeing  too 
much.  The  Russian  is  light  hearted  about  the 
forms  of  truth,  but  revels  in  self-knowledge  and 
frank  self-declaration,  enjoys  unbottoming  the 
abysses  of  his  thoughts  and  feelings,  however 
gloomy.  In  Russia  time  and  space  have  no  exact 
importance,  living  counts  for  more  than  dominat- 
ing life,  emotion  is  not  castrated,  feelings  are 
openly  indulged  in;  in  Russia  there  are  the  ex- 
tremes of  cynicism,  and  of  faith;  of  intellectual 
subtlety,  and  simplicity;  truth  has  quite  another 
significance;  manners  are  different;  what  we  know 
as  "good  form"  is  a  meaningless  shibboleth. 
The  Russian  rushes  at  life,  drinks  the  cup  to  the 
dregs,  then  frankly  admits  that  it  has  dregs,  and 
puts  up  with  the  disillusionment.  The  English- 
man holds  the  cup  gingerly  and  sips,  determined 

83 


ENGLISHMAN  AND  RUSSIAN 

to  make  it  last  his  time,  not  to  disturb  the  dregs, 
and  to  die  without  having  reached  the  bottom. 

These  are  the  two  poles  of  that  instinctive 
intention  to  get  out  of  life  all  there  is  in  it — which 
is  ever  the  unconscious  philosophy  guiding  man- 
kind. To  the  Russian  it  is  vital  to  realise  at  all 
costs  the  fulness  of  sensation  and  reach  the  limits 
of  comprehension;  to  the  Englishman  it  is  vital 
to  preserve  illusion  and  go  on  defeating  death 
until  death  so  unexpectedly  defeats  him. 

What  this  wide  distinction  comes  from  I  know 
not,  unless  from  the  difference  of  our  climates  and 
geographical  circumstances.  Russians  are  the 
children  of  vast  plains  and  forests,  dry  air,  and 
extremes  of  heat  and  cold;  the  English,  of  the 
sea,  small,  uneven  hedge-rowed  landscapes,  mist, 
and  mean  temperatures.  By  an  ironical  paradox, 
we  English  have  achieved  a  real  liberty  of  speech 
and  action,  even  now  denied  to  Russians,  who 
naturally  far  surpass  us  in  desire  to  turn  things 
inside  out  and  see  of  what  they  are  made.  The 
political  arrangements  of  a  country  are  based  on 
temperament;  and  a  political  freedom  which  suits 
us,  an  old  people,  predisposed  to  a  practical  and 
cautious  view  of  life,  is  proving  difficult,  if  not 
impossible,  for  Russians,  a  young  people,  who 
spend  themselves  so  freely.  But  what  Russia  will 
become,  politically  speaking,  he  would  be  rash 
who  prophesied. 

84 


ENGLISHMAN  AND  RUSSIAN 

I  suppose  what  Russians  most  notice  and  per- 
haps envy  in  us  is  practical  common  sense,  our 
acquired  instinct  for  what  is  attainable,  and  for 
the  best  and  least  elaborate  means  of  attaining  it. 
What  we  ought  to  en\y  in  Russians  is  a  sort  of 
unworldliness — not  the  feeling  that  this  world  is 
the  preliminary  of  another,  nothing  so  commer- 
cial; but  the  natural  disposition  to  Hve  each  mo- 
ment without  afterthought,  emotionally.  Lack  of 
emotional  abandonment  is  our  great  deficiency. 
Whether  we  can  ever  learn  to  have  more  is  veiy 
doubtful.  But  our  imaginative  writings,  at  all 
events,  have  of  late  been  profoundly  modified  by 
the  Russian  novel,  that  current  in  literature  far 
more  potent  than  any  of  those  traced  out  in  Georg 
Brandes'  monumental  study.  Russian  writers 
have  brought  to  imaginative  literature  a  direct- 
ness in  the  presentation  of  vision,  a  lack  of  self- 
consciousness,  strange  to  all  Western  countries, 
and  particularly  strange  to  us  English,  who  of  all 
people  are  the  most  self-conscious.  This  quality 
of  Russian  writers  is  evidently  racial,  for  even  in 
the  most  artful  of  them — Turgenev — it  is  as  ap- 
parent as  in  the  least  sophisticated.  It  is  part, 
no  doubt,  of  their  natural  power  of  flinging  them- 
selves deep  into  the  sea  of  experience  and  sensa- 
tion; of  their  self-forgetfulness  in  a  passionate 
search  for  truth. 

In  such  hving  Russian  writers  as  I  have  read, 
85 


ENGLISHMAN  AND  RUSSIAN 

in  Kuprin,  Gorky,  and  others,  I  still  see  and  wel- 
come this  peculiar  quality  of  rendering  life  through 
— but  not  veiled  by — the  author's  temperament; 
so  that  the  effect  is  almost  as  if  no  ink  were  used. 
When  one  says  that  the  Russian  novel  has  already 
profoundly  modified  our  literature,  one  does  not 
mean  that  we  have  now  nearly  triumphed  over 
the  need  for  ink,  or  that  our  temperaments  have 
become  Russian;  but  that  some  of  us  have  become 
infected  with  the  wish  to  see  and  record  the  truth 
and  obliterate  that  competitive  moralising  which 
from  time  immemorial  has  been  the  characteristic 
bane  of  English  art.  In  other  words,  the  Russian 
passion  for  understanding  has  tempered  a  little 
the  English  passion  for  winning.  What  we  admire 
and  look  for  in  Russian  literature  is  its  truth  and 
its  profound  and  comprehending  tolerance.  I  am 
credibly  informed  that  what  Russians  admire  and 
look  for  in  our  literature  is  its  quahty  of  "no 
nonsense"  and  its  assertive  vigour.  In  a  word, 
they  are  attracted  by  that  in  it  which  is  new  to 
them.  I  venture  to  hope  that  they  will  not  be- 
come infected  by  us  in  this  matter;  that  nothing 
will  dim  in  their  writers  spiritual  and  intellectual 
honesty  of  vision  or  tinge  them  with  self-con- 
sciousness. It  is  still  for  us  to  borrow  from  Rus- 
sian literary  art,  and  learn,  if  we  can,  to  sink  our- 
selves in  life  and  reproduce  it  without  obtrusion 

86 


ENGLISHMAN  AND  RUSSIAN 

of  our  points  of  view,  except  in  that  subtle  way 
which  gives  to  each  creative  work  its  essential 
individuality.  Our  boisterousness  in  art  is  too 
self-conscious  to  be  real,  and  our  restraint  is  only 
a  superficial  legacy  from  Puritanism. 

Restraint  in  life  and  conduct  is  another  matter 
altogether.  There  Russians  can  learn  from  us, 
who  are  past-masters  in  control  of  our  feelings. 
In  all  matters  of  conduct,  indeed,  we  are,  as  it 
were,  much  older  than  the  Russians;  we  were 
more  like  them,  one  imagines,  in  the  days  of 
Ehzabeth. 

Either  similarity,  or  great  dissimilarity,  is  gen- 
erally needful  for  mutual  liking.  Our  soldiers 
appear  to  get  on  very  well  with  Russians.  But 
only  exceptional  natures  in  either  country  could 
ex-pect  to  understand  each  other  thoroughly.  The 
two  peoples  are  as  the  halves  of  a  whole;  different 
as  chalk  from  cheese;  can  supplement,  intermingle, 
but  never  replace  each  other.  Both  in  so  different 
ways  are  very  vital  types  of  mankind,  very  deep 
sunk  in  their  own  atmospheres  and  natures,  very' 
insulated  against  all  that  is  not  Russian,  or  is  not 
English;  deeply  unchangeable  and  impermeable. 
It  is  almost  impossible  to  de-Anglicise  an  English- 
man; as  difficult  to  de-Russianise  a  Russian. 

1916. 


87 


AMERICAN  AND  BRITON 

On  the  mutual  understanding  of  each  other  by 
Britons  and  Americans  the  future  happiness  of 
nations  depends  more  than  on  any  other  world 
cause. 

I  have  never  held  a  whole-hearted  brief  for  the 
British  character.  There  is  a  lot  of  good  in  it, 
but  much  which  is  repellent.  It  has  a  kind  of  de- 
hberate  unattractiveness,  setting  out  on  its  jour- 
ney with  the  words:  "Take  me  or  leave  me." 
One  may  respect  a  person  of  this  sort,  but  it  is 
difficult  either  to  know  or  to  like  him.  I  am  told 
that  an  American  officer  said  recently  to  a  British 
staff  officer  in  a  friendly  voice:  ''So  we're  going  to 
clean  up  Brother  Boche  together!"  and  the  Brit- 
ish staff  officer  replied  "Really!"  No  wonder 
Americans  sometimes  say:  "I've  got  no  use  for 
those  fellows." 

The  world  is  consecrate  to  strangeness  and  dis- 
covery, and  the  attitude  of  mind  concreted  in 
that  "Really!"  seems  unforgivable,  till  one  re- 
members that  it  is  manner  rather  than  matter 
which  divides  the  hearts  of  American  and  Briton. 

In  a  huge,  still  half-developed  country,  where 
every  kind  of  national  t}T3e  and  habit  comes  to 


AMERICAN  AND  BRITON 

run  a  new  thread  into  the  rich  tapestry  of  Amer- 
ican Hfe  and  thought,  people  must  find  it  ahnost 
impossible  to  conceive  the  life  of  a  little  old  island 
where  traditions  persist  generation  after  genera- 
tion without  anything  to  break  them  up;  where 
blood  remains  undoctored  by  new  strains;  de- 
meanour becomes  crystallised  for  lack  of  con- 
trasts; and  manner  gets  set  like  a  plaster  mask. 
The  English  manner  of  to-day,  of  what  are  called 
the  classes,  is  the  growth  of  only  a  century  or  so. 
There  was  probably  nothing  at  all  like  it  in  the 
days  of  Elizabeth  or  even  of  Charles  II.  The 
English  manner  was  still  racy  when  the  inhabi- 
tants of  Virginia,  as  we  are  told,  sent  over  to  ask 
that  there  might  be  despatched  to  them  some 
hierarchical  assistance  for  the  good  of  their  souls, 

and  were  answered:  "D n  your  souls,  grow 

tobacco!"  The  English  manner  of  to-day  could 
not  even  have  come  into  its  own  when  that  epi- 
taph of  a  lady,  quoted  somewhere  by  Gilbert 
Murray,  was  written:  ''Bland,  passionate,  and 
deeply  religious,  she  was  second  cousin  to  the  Earl 
of  Leitrim;  of  such  are  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven." 
About  that  gravestone  motto  was  a  certani  lack 
of  the  self-consciousness  which  is  now  the  fore- 
most characteristic  of  the  English  manner. 

But  this  British  self-consciousness  is  no  mere 
fluffy  gaucherie,  it  is  our  special  form  of  what  Ger- 

89 


AMERICAN  AND  BRITON 

mans  would  call  "Kultur."  Behind  every  mani- 
festation of  thought  or  emotion  the  Briton  retains 
control  of  self,  and  is  thinking:  "That's  all  I'll  let 
them  see";  even:  "That's  all  I'll  let  myself  feel." 
This  stoicism  is  good  in  its  refusal  to  be  foun- 
dered; bad  in  that  it  fosters  a  narrow  outlook; 
starves  emotion,  spontaneity,  and  frank  sym- 
pathy; destroys  grace  and  what  one  may  describe 
roughly  as  the  lovable  side  of  personaHty.  The 
Enghsh  hardly  ever  say  just  what  comes  into 
their  heads.  What  we  call  "good  form,"  the  un- 
written law  which  governs  certain  classes  of  the 
Briton,  savours  of  the  dull  and  glacial;  but  there 
lurks  within  it  a  core  of  virtue.  It  has  grown  up 
like  callous  shell  round  two  fine  ideals — suppres- 
sion of  the  ego  lest  it  trample  on  the  corns  of  other 
people,  and  exaltation  of  the  maxim:  "Deeds  be- 
fore words."  Good  form,  like  any  other  religion, 
starts  well  with  some  ethical  truth,  but  soon  gets 
commonised  and  petrified  till  we  can  hardly  trace 
its  origin,  and  watch  with  surprise  its  denial  and 
contradiction  of  the  root  idea. 

Without  doubt  good  form  had  become  a  kind 
of  disease  in  England.  A  French  friend  told  me 
how  he  witnessed  in  a  Swiss  Hotel  the  meeting 
between  an  Englishwoman  and  her  son,  whom 
she  had  not  seen  for  two  years;  she  was  greatly 
affected — by  the  fact  that  he  had  not  brought  a 

90 


AMERICAN  AND  BRITON 

dinner-jacket.  The  best  manners  are  no  "man- 
ners," or  at  all  events  no  mannerisms;  but  many- 
Britons  who  have  even  attained  to  this  perfect 
purity  are  yet  not  free  from  the  paralytic  effects 
of  "good  form";  are  still  self-conscious  in  the 
depths  of  their  souls,  and  never  do  or  say  a  thing 
without  trying  not  to  show  what  they  are  feeUng. 
All  this  guarantees  a  certain  decency  in  Hfe;  but 
in  intimate  intercourse  with  people  of  other 
nations  who  have  not  this  particular  cult  of  sup- 
pression, we  EngHsh  disappoint,  and  jar,  and 
often  irritate.  Nations  have  their  differing  forms 
of  snobbery.  At  one  time  the  English  all  wanted 
to  be  second  cousins  to  the  Earl  of  Leitrim,  like 
that  lady  bland  and  passionate.  Nowadays  it  is 
not  so  simple.  The  Earl  of  Leitrim  has  become 
etherealised.  We  no  longer  care  how  a  fellow  is 
bom  so  long  as  he  behaves  as  the  Earl  of  Leitrim 
would  have,  never  makes  himself  conspicuous  or 
ridiculous,  never  shows  too  much  what  he's  really 
feeling,  never  talks  of  what  he's  going  to  do,  and 
always  "plays  the  game."  The  cult  is  centred  in 
our  pubUc  schools  and  universities. 

At  a  very  typical  and  honoured  old  public 
school  the  writer  of  this  essay  passed  on  the  whole 
a  happy  time;  but  what  a  curious  life,  education- 
ally speaking !  We  lived  rather  like  young  Spar- 
tans; and  were  not  encouraged  to  think,  imagine, 

91 


AMERICAN  AND  BRITON 

or  see  anything  that  we  learned  in  relation  to  life 
at  large.  It's  very  difficult  to  teach  boys,  be- 
cause their  chief  object  in  life  is  not  to  be  taught 
anything,  but  I  should  say  we  were  crammed, 
not  taught  at  all.  Living  as  we  did  the  herd-life 
of  boys  with  Uttle  or  no  intrusion  from  our  elders, 
and  they  men  who  had  been  brought  up  in  the 
same  way  as  ourselves,  we  were  debarred  from 
any  real  interest  in  philosophy,  histor>%  art,  lit- 
erature and  music,  or  any  advancing  notions  in 
social  life  or  politics.  I  speak  of  the  generality, 
not  of  the  few  black  swans  among  us.  We  were 
reactionaries  almost  to  a  boy.  I  remember  one 
summer  term  Gladstone  came  down  to  speak  to 
us,  and  we  repaired  to  the  Speech  Room  with 
white  collars  and  dark  hearts,  muttering  what  we 
would  do  to  that  Grand  Old  Man  if  we  could 
have  our  way.  But  he  contrived  to  charm  us, 
after  all,  till  we  cheered  him  vociferously.  In 
that  queer  life  we  had  all  sorts  of  unwritten  rules 
of  suppression.  You  must  turn  up  your  trousers; 
must  not  go  out  with  your  umbrella  rolled.  Your 
hat  must  be  worn  tilted  forward;  you  must  not 
walk  more  than  two-a-breast  till  you  reached  a 
certain  form,  nor  be  enthusiastic  about  anything, 
except  such  a  supreme  matter  as  a  drive  over  the 
pavihon  at  cricket,  or  a  run  the  whole  length  of 
the  ground  at  football.    You  must  not  talk  about 

92 


AMERICAN  AND  BRITON 

yourself  or  your  home  people,  and  for  an}-  punish- 
ment you  nmst  assume  complete  indifference. 

I  dwell  on  these  trivialities  because  every  year 
thousands  of  British  boys  enter  these  mills  which 
grind  exceeding  small,  and  because  these  boys 
constitute  in  after  hfe  the  great  majority  of  the 
official,  militaiy,  academic,  professional,  and  a 
considerable  proportion  of  the  business  classes  of 
Great  Britain.  They  become  the  Enghshmen  who 
say:  "Really!"  and  they  are  for  the  most  part 
the  Englishmen  who  travel  and  reach  America. 
The  great  defence  I  have  always  heard  put  up  for 
our  public  schools  is  that  they  form  character. 
As  oatmeal  is  supposed  to  form  bone  in  the  bodies 
of  Scotsmen,  so  our  public  schools  are  supposed 
to  form  good,  sound  moral  fibre  in  British  boys. 
And  there  is  much  in  this  plea.  The  life  does 
make  boys  enduring,  self-reliant,  good-tempered 
and  honourable,  but  it  most  carefully  endeavours 
to  destroy  all  original  sin  of  individuality,  spon- 
taneity, and  engaging  freakishness.  It  implants, 
moreover,  in  the  great  majority  of  those  who 
have  lived  it  the  mental  attitude  of  that  swell, 
who  when  asked  where  he  went  for  his  hats,  re- 
phed:  "Blank's,  of  course.  Is  there  another  fel- 
low's?" 

To  know  all  is  to  excuse  all — to  know  all  about 
the  bringing-up  of  English  public  school  boys 

93 


AMERICAN  AND  BRITON 

makes  one  excuse  much.  The  atmosphere  and 
tradition  of  those  places  is  extraordinarily  strong, 
and  persists  through  all  modern  changes.  Thirty- 
seven  years  have  gone  since  I  was  a  new  boy,  but 
cross-examining  a  young  nephew  who  left  not 
long  ago,  I  found  almost  precisely  the  same 
features  and  conditions.  The  war,  which  has 
changed  so  much  of  our  social  life,  will  have  some, 
but  no  very  great,  effect  on  this  particular  insti- 
tution. The  boys  still  go  there  from  the  same 
kind  of  homes  and  preparatory  schools  and  come 
under  the  same  kind  of  masters.  And  the  tra- 
ditional unemotionalism,  the  cult  of  a  dry  and 
narrow  stoicism,  is  rather  fortified  than  dimin- 
ished by  the  times  we  live  in. 

Our  universities,  on  the  other  hand,  are  now 
mere  ghosts  of  their  old  selves.  At  a  certain  old 
college  in  Oxford,  last  term,  they  had  only  two 
English  students.  In  the  chapel  under  the 
Joshua  Reynolds  window,  through  which  the  sun 
was  shining,  hung  a  long  "roll  of  honour,"  a  hun- 
dred names  and  more.  In  the  college  garden  an 
open-air  hospital  was  ranged  under  the  old  city 
wall,  where  we  used  to  climb  and  go  wandering 
in  the  early  summer  mornings  after  some  all-night 
spree.  Down  on  the  river  the  empty  college 
barges  lay  void  of  life.  From  the  top  of  one  of 
them  an  aged  custodian  broke  into  words:  "Ah! 

94 


AMERICAN  AND  BRITON 

Oxford'll  never  be  the  same  again  in  my  time. 
Why,  who's  to  teach  'em  rowin'?  When  we  do 
get  undergrads  again,  who's  to  teach  'em?  All 
the  old  ones  gone,  killed,  wounded  and  that.  No  ! 
Rowin'U  never  be  the  same  again — not  in  my 
time."  That  was  the  tragedy  of  the  war  for  him. 
Our  universities  will  recover  faster  than  he  thinks, 
and  resume  the  care  of  our  particular  ''Kultur," 
and  cap  the  products  of  our  pubhc  schools  with 
the  Oxford  accent  and  the  Oxford  manner. 

An  acute  critic  tells  me  that  Americans  read- 
ing such  deprecatory  words  as  these  by  an  Eng- 
lishman about  his  country's  institutions  would 
say  that  this  is  precisely  an  instance  of  what  an 
American  means  by  the  Oxford  manner.  Ameri- 
cans whose  attitude  towards  their  own  country  is 
that  of  a  lover  to  his  lady  or  a  child  to  its  mother, 
cannot — he  says — understand  how  Englishmen 
can  be  critical  of  their  own  country,  and  yet  love 
her.  Well,  the  Englishman's  attitude  to  his 
country  is  that  of  a  man  to  himself,  and  the  way 
he  runs  her  down  is  but  a  part  of  that  special 
Enghsh  bone-deep  self-consciousness.  English- 
men (the  writer  amongst  them)  love  their  coun- 
try as  much  as  the  French  love  France  and  the 
Americans  America;  but  she  is  so  much  a  part  of 
them  that  to  speak  well  of  her  is  like  speaking 
well  of  themselves,  which  they  have  been  brought 

95 


AMERICAN  AND  BRITON 

up  to  regard  as  "bad  form."  When  Americans 
hear  Englishmen  speaking  critically  of  their  own 
countr}^,  let  them  note  it  for  a  sign  of  complete 
identification  with  that  country  rather  than  of 
detachment  from  it.  But  on  the  whole  it  must 
be  admitted  that  English  universities  have  a 
broadening  influence  on  the  material  which  comes 
to  them  so  set  and  narrow.  They  do  a  little  to 
discover  for  their  children  that  there  are  many 
points  of  view,  and  much  which  needs  an  open 
mind  in  this  world.  They  have  not  precisely  a 
democratic  influence,  but  taken  by  themselves 
they  would  not  be  inimical  to  democracy.  And 
when  the  war  is  over  they  will  surely  be  still 
broader  in  philosophy  and  teaching.  Heaven 
forbid  that  we  should  see  vanish  all  that  is  old, 
and  has,  as  it  were,  the  virginia-creeper,  the  wis- 
taria bloom  of  age  upon  it;  there  is  a  beauty  in 
age  and  a  health  in  tradition,  ill  dispensed  with. 
WTiat  is  hateful  in  age  is  its  lack  of  understanding 
and  of  sympathy;  in  a  word — its  intolerance. 
Let  us  hope  this  wind  of  change  may  sweep  out 
and  sweeten  the  old  places  of  our  country,  sweep 
away  the  cobwebs  and  the  dust,  our  narrow  ways 
of  thought,  our  mannikinisms.  But  those  who 
hate  intolerance  dare  not  be  intolerant  with  the 
foibles  of  age;  we  should  rather  see  them  as  comic, 
and  gently  laugh  them  out.    I  pretend  to  no 

96 


AMERICAN  AND  BRITON 

proper  knowledge  of  the  American  people;  but, 
though  amongst  them  there  are  doubtless  pockets 
of  fierce  prejudice,  I  have  on  the  whole  the  im- 
pression of  a  wide  and  tolerant  spirit.  To  that 
spirit  one  would  appeal  when  it  comes  to  passing 
judgment  on  the  educated  Briton.  He  may  be 
self-sufficient,  but  he  has  grit;  and  at  bottom  grit 
is  what  Americans  appreciate  more  than  anything. 
If  the  motto  of  the  old  Oxford  college,  "Manners 
makyth  man,"  were  true,  one  would  often  be 
sorry  for  the  Briton.  But  his  manners  do  not 
make  him;  they  mar  him.  His  goods  are  all 
absent  from  the  shop  window;  he  is  not  a  man  of 
the  world  in  the  wider  meaning  of  that  expression. 
And  there  is,  of  course,  a  particularly  noxious 
t}'pe  of  travelling  Briton,  who  does  his  best,  un- 
consciously, to  deflower  his  countiy  wherever  he 
goes.  Selfish,  coarse-fibred,  loud-voiced — the  sort 
which  thanks  God  he  is  a  Briton — I  suppose  be- 
cause nobody  else  will  do  it  for  him. 

We  live  in  times  when  patriotism  is  exalted 
above  all  other  virtues,  because  there  happen  to 
lie  before  the  patriotic  tremendous  chances  for 
the  display  of  courage  and  self-sacrifice.  Patri- 
otism ever  has  that  advantage,  as  the  world  is 
now  constituted;  but  patriotism  and  provincial- 
ism are  sisters  under  the  skin,  and  they  who  can 
only  see  bloom  on  the  plumage  of  their  own  kind, 

97 


AMERICAN  AND  BRITON 

who  prefer  the  bad  points  of  their  countrymen  to 
the  good  points  of  foreigners,  merely  write  them- 
selves down  bUnd  of  an  eye,  and  panderers  to 
herd  feehng.  America  is  advantaged  in  this 
matter.  She  lives  so  far  away  from  other  nations 
that  she  might  well  be  excused  for  thinking  her- 
self the  only  people  in  the  world;  but  in  the  many 
strains  of  blood  which  go  to  make  up  America 
there  is  as  yet  a  natural  corrective  to  the  nar- 
rower kind  of  patriotism.  America  has  vast 
spaces  and  many  varieties  of  type  and  climate, 
and  life  to  her  is  still  a  great  adventure.  Amer- 
icans have  their  own  form  of  self-absorption,  but 
seem  free  as  yet  from  the  special  competitive 
self-centrement  which  has  been  forced  on  Britons 
through  long  centuries  by  countless  continental 
rivalries  and  wars.  Insularity  was  driven  into 
the  very  bones  of  our  people  by  the  generation- 
long  wars  of  Napoleon.  A  distinguished  French 
writer,  Andre  Chevrillon,  whose  book*  may  be 
commended  to  any  one  who  wishes  to  understand 
British  peculiarities,  used  these  words  in  a  recent 
letter:  ''You  English  are  so  strange  to  us  French, 
you  are  so  utterly  different  from  any  other  people 
in  the  world."  Yes!  We  are  a  lonely  race. 
Deep  in  our  hearts,  I  think,  we  feel  that  only  the 
American  people  could  ever  really  understand  us. 

*  "  England  and  the  War."     Hodder  &  Stoughton. 
98 


AMERICAN  AND  BRITON 

And  being  extraordinarily  self-conscious,  per- 
verse, and  proud,  we  do  our  best  to  hide  from 
Americans  that  we  have  any  such  feeling.  It 
would  distress  the  average  Briton  to  confess  that 
he  wanted  to  be  understood,  had  anything  so 
natural  as  a  craving  for  fellowship  or  for  being 
liked.  We  are  a  weird  people,  though  we  seem 
so  commonplace.  In  looking  at  photographs  of 
British  types  among  photographs  of  other  Euro- 
pean nationalities,  one  is  struck  by  something 
which  is  in  no  other  of  those  races — exactly  as  if 
we  had  an  extra  skin;  as  if  the  British  animal 
had  been  tamed  longer  than  the  rest.  And  so  he 
has.  His  poHtical,  social,  legal  life  was  fixed  long 
before  that  of  any  other  Western  country.  He 
was  old,  though  not  mouldering,  before  the  May- 
flower touched  American  shores  and  brought  there 
avatars,  grave  and  civiHsed  as  ever  founded  na- 
tion. There  is  something  touching  and  terrify- 
ing about  our  character,  about  the  depth  at  which 
it  keeps  its  real  yearnings,  about  the  perversity 
with  which  it  disguises  them,  and  its  inabihty  to 
show  its  feehngs.  We  are,  deep  down,  under  all 
our  lazy  mentality,  the  most  combative  and  com- 
petitive race  in  the  world,  with  the  exception, 
perhaps,  of  the  American.  This  is  at  once  a 
spiritual  hnk  with  America,  and  yet  one  of  the 
great   barriers   to   friendship   between   the   two 

99 


AMERICAN  AND  BRITON 

peoples.  We  are  not  sure  whether  we  are  better 
men  than  Americans.  Whether  we  are  really  bet- 
ter than  French,  Germans,  Russians,  Itahans, 
Chinese,  or  any  other  race  is,  of  course,  more 
than  a  question;  but  those  peoples  are  all  so  dif- 
ferent from  us  that  we  are  bound,  I  suppose, 
secretly  to  consider  ourselves  superior.  But  be- 
tween Americans  and  ourselves,  under  all  differ- 
ences, there  is  some  mysterious  deep  kinship 
which  causes  us  to  doubt  and  makes  us  irritable, 
as  if  we  were  continually  being  tickled  by  that 
question :  Now  am  I  really  a  better  man  than  he  ? 
Exactly  what  proportion  of  American  blood  at 
this  time  of  day  is  British,  I  know  not;  but  enough 
to  make  us  definitely  cousins — always  an  awk- 
ward relationship.  We  see  in  Americans  a  sort 
of  image  of  ourselves;  feel  near  enough,  yet  far 
enough,  to  criticise  and  carp  at  the  points  of 
difference.  It  is  as  though  a  man  went  out  and 
encountered,  in  the  street,  what  he  thought  for 
the  moment  was  himself,  and,  wounded  in  his 
amour  propre,  instantly  began  to  disparage  the 
appearance  of  that  fellow.  Probably  community 
of  language  rather  than  of  blood  accounts  for  our 
sense  of  kinship,  for  a  common  means  of  expres- 
sion cannot  but  mould  thought  and  feeling  into 
some  kind  of  unity.  One  can  hardly  overrate 
the  intimacy  which  a  common  literature  brings. 

100 


AMERICAN  AND  BRITON 

The  lives  of  great  Americans,  Washington  and 
Franklin,  Lincoln  and  Lee  and  Grant,  are  un- 
sealed for  us,  just  as  to  Americans  are  the  lives  of 
Marlborough  and  Nelson,  Pitt  and  Gladstone 
and  Gordon.  Longfellow  and  Whittier  and  WTiit- 
man  can  be  read  by  the  British  child  as  simply 
as  Burns  and  Shelley  and  Keats.  Emerson  and 
William  James  are  no  more  difficult  to  us  than 
Darwin  and  Spencer  to  Americans.  Without  an 
effort  we  rejoice  in  Hawthorne  and  Mark  Twain, 
Henry  James  and  Howells,  as  Americans  can  in 
Dickens  and  Thackeray,  Meredith  and  Thomas 
Hard}^  And,  more  than  all,  Americans  own  with 
ourselves  all  literature  in  the  English  tongue 
before  the  Mmjflower  sailed ;  Chaucer  and  Spenser 
and  Shakespeare,  Raleigh,  Ben  Jonson,  and  the 
authors  of  the  Enghsh  Bible  Version  are  their 
spiritual  ancestors  as  much  as  ever  they  are  ours. 
The  tie  of  language  is  all-powerful — for  language 
is  the  food  formative  of  minds.  A  volume  could 
be  written  on  the  formation  of  character  by  lit- 
erary humour  alone.  The  American  and  Briton, 
especially  the  British  townsman,  have  a  kind  of 
bone-deep  defiance  of  Fate,  a  readiness  for  an}-- 
thing  which  may  turn  up,  a  dry,  wry  smile  under 
the  blackest  sky,  and  an  individual  way  of  look- 
ing at  things  which  nothing  can  shake.  Amer- 
icans and  Britons  both,  we  must  and  will  think 

101 


AMERICAN  AND  BRITON 

for  ourselves,  and  know  why  we  do  a  thing  before 
we  do  it.  We  have  that  ingrained  respect  for  the 
individual  conscience  which  is  at  the  bottom  of 
all  free  institutions.  Some  years  before  the  war 
an  intelligent  and  cultivated  Austrian,  who  had 
lived  long  in  England,  was  asked  for  his  opinion 
of  the  British.  "In  many  ways,"  he  said,  "I 
think  you  are  inferior  to  us;  but  one  great  thing  I 
have  noticed  about  you  which  we  have  not. 
You  think  and  act  and  speak  for  yourselves."  If 
he  had  passed  those  years  in  America  instead  of 
in  England  he  must  needs  have  pronounced  the 
same  judgment  of  Americans.  Free  speech,  of 
course,  like  every  form  of  freedom,  goes  in  dan- 
ger of  its  Hfe  in  war-time.  The  other  day,  in 
Russia,  an  Englishman  came  on  a  street  meeting 
shortly  after  the  first  revolution  had  begun.  An 
extremist  was  addressing  the  gathering  and  tell- 
ing them  that  they  were  fools  to  go  on  fighting, 
that  they  ought  to  refuse  and  go  home,  and  so 
forth.  The  crowd  grew  angry,  and  some  soldiers 
were  for  making  a  rush  at  him;  but  the  chairman, 
a  big,  burly  peasant,  stopped  them  with  these 
words:  "Brothers,  you  know  that  our  country  is 
now  a  country  of  free  speech.  We  must  Hsten 
to  this  man,  we  must  let  him  say  anything  he 
will.  But,  brothers,  when  he's  finished,  we'll 
bash  his  head  in!" 

102 


AMERICAN  AND  BRITON 

I  cannot  assert  that  either  Britons  or  Amer- 
icans are  incapable  in  times  like  these  of  a  similar 
interpretation  of  "free  speech."  Things  have 
been  done  in  our  country,  and  will  be  done  in 
America,  which  should  make  us  blush.  But  so 
strong  is  the  free  instinct  in  both  countries  that 
some  vestiges  of  it  will  survive  even  this  war,  for 
democracy  is  a  sham  unless  it  means  the  preser- 
vation and  development  of  this  instinct  of  think- 
ing for  oneself  throughout  a  people.  "Govern- 
ment of  the  people  by  the  people  for  the  people" 
means  nothing  unless  individuals  keep  their 
consciences  unfettered  and  think  freely.  Accus- 
tom people  to  be  nose-led  and  spoon-fed,  and 
democracy  is  a  mere  pretence.  The  measure  of 
democracy  is  the  measure  of  the  freedom  and 
sense  of  individual  responsibility  in  its  humblest 
citizens.  And  democracy — I  say  it  with  solemnity 
— has  yet  to  prove  itself. 

A  scientist.  Dr.  Spurrell,  in  a  recent  book, 
"Man  and  his  Forerunners,"  diagnoses  the  growth 
of  civilisations  somewhat  as  follows :  A  civilisation 
begins  with  the  enslavement  by  some  hardy  race 
of  a  tame  race  living  a  tame  life  in  more  congenial 
natural  surroundings.  It  is  built  up  on  slavery^ 
and  attains  its  maximum  vitaHty  in  conditions 
little  removed  therefrom.  Then,  as  individual 
freedom  gradually  grows,  disorganisation  sets  in 

103 


AMERICAN  AND  BRITON 

and  the  civilisation  slowly  dissolves  away  in 
anarch3^  Dr.  Spurrell  does  not  dogmatise  about 
our  present  civilisation,  but  suggests  that  it  will 
probably  follow  the  civilisations  of  the  past  into 
dissolution.  I  am  not  convinced  of  that,  because 
of  certain  factors  new  to  the  history  of  man. 
Recent  discoveries  are  unifying  the  world;  such 
old  isolated  swoops  of  race  on  race  are  not  now 
possible.  In  our  great  industrial  States,  it  is 
true,  a  new  form  of  slavery  has  arisen,  but  not 
of  man  by  man,  rather  of  man  by  machines. 
Moreover,  all  past  civilisations  have  been  more 
or  less  Southern,  and  subject  to  the  sapping  influ- 
ence of  the  sun.  Modern  civilisation  is  essen- 
tially Northern.  The  individualism,  however, 
which,  according  to  Dr.  Spurrell,  dissolved  the 
Empires  of  the  past,  exists  already,  in  a  marked 
degree,  in  every  modern  State;  and  the  problem 
before  us  is  to  discover  how  democracy  and  liberty 
of  the  subject  can  be  made  into  endurmg  props 
rather  than  dissolvents.  It  is  the  problem  of 
making  democracy  genuine.  And  certainly,  if 
that  cannot  be  achieved  and  perpetuated,  there  is 
nothing  to  prevent  democracy  drifting  into  anar- 
chism and  dissolving  modern  States,  till  they  are 
the  prey  of  pouncing  dictators,  or  of  States  not 
so  far  gone  in  dissolution.  What,  for  instance, 
will  happen  to  Russia  if  she  does  not  succeed  in 

104 


AMERICAN  AND  BRITON 

making  her  democracy  genuine  ?  A  Russia  which 
remains  anarchic  must  very  quickly  become  the 
prey  of  her  neighbours  on  West  and  East. 

Ever  since  the  substantial  introduction  of  de- 
mocracy nearly  a  century  and  a  half  ago  with 
the  American  War  of  Independence,  Western  civ- 
ilisation has  been  living  on  two  planes  or  levels — 
the  autocratic  plane,  with  which  is  bound  up  the 
idea  of  nationalism,  and  the  democratic,  to  which 
has  become  conjoined  the  idea  of  internationaUsm. 
Not  only  little  wars,  but  great  wars  such  as  this, 
come  because  of  inequality  in  growth,  dissimilarity 
of  political  institutions  between  States;  because 
this  State  or  that  is  basing  its  life  on  different 
principles  from  its  neighbours.  The  decentrahsa- 
tion,  delays,  critical  temper,  and  importance  of 
home  affairs  prevalent  in  democratic  countries 
make  them  at  once  slower,  weaker,  less  apt  to 
strike,  and  less  prepared  to  strike  than  countries 
where  bureaucratic  brains  subject  to  no  real 
popular  check  devise  world  policies  which  can  be 
thrust,  prepared  to  the  last  button,  on  the  world 
at  a  moment's  notice.  The  free  and  critical 
spirit  in  America,  France,  and  Britain  has  kept 
our  democracies  comparatively  unprepared  for 
anything  save  their  own  affairs. 

We  fall  into  glib  usage  of  words  like  democracy 
and  make  fetiches  of  them  without  due  under- 

105 


AMERICAN  AND  BRITON 

standing.  Democracy  is  inferior  to  autocracy 
from  the  aggressively  national  point  of  view;  it 
is  not  necessarily  superior  to  autocracy  as  a  guar- 
antee of  general  well-being;  it  may  even  turn  out 
to  be  inferior  unless  we  can  improve  it.  But 
democracy  is  the  rising  tide;  it  may  be  dammed 
or  delayed,  but  cannot  be  stopped.  It  seems  to 
be  a  law  in  human  nature  that  where,  in  any 
corporate  society,  the  idea  of  self-government  sets 
foot  it  refuses  to  take  that  foot  up  again.  State 
after  State,  copying  the  American  example,  has 
adopted  the  democratic  principle;  the  world's  face 
is  that  way  set.  And  civilisation  is  now  so  of  a 
pattern  that  the  Western  world  may  be  looked  on 
as  one  State  and  the  process  of  change  therein 
from  autocracy  to  democracy  regarded  as  though 
it  were  taking  place  in  a  single  old-time  countiy 
such  as  Greece  or  Rome.  If  throughout  Western 
civilisation  we  can  secure  the  single  democratic 
principle  of  government,  its  single  level  of  State 
morality  in  thought  and  action,  we  shall  be  well 
on  our  way  to  unanimity  throughout  the  world; 
for  even  in  China  and  Japan  the  democratic  virus 
is  at  work.  It  is  my  belief  that  only  in  a  world 
thus  uniform,  and  freed  from  the  danger  of  pounce 
by  autocracies,  have  States  any  chance  to  develop 
the  individual  conscience  to  a  point  which  shall 
make  democracy  proof  against  anarchy  and  them- 

1G6 


AMERICAN  AND  BRITON 

selves  proof  against  dissolution;  and  only  in  such 
a  world  can  a  League  of  Nations  to  enforce  peace 
succeed. 

But  even  if  we  do  secure  a  single  plane  for 
Western  civilisation  and  ultimately  for  the  world, 
there  will  be  but  slow  and  difficult  progress  in  the 
lot  of  mankind.  And  unless  we  secure  it,  there 
will  be  only  a  march  backwards. 

For  this  advance  to  a  uniform  civiHsation  the 
sohdarity  of  the  English-speaking  races  is  vital. 
Without  that  there  will  be  no  bottom  on  which 
to  build. 

The  ancestors  of  the  American  people  sought  a 
new  country  because  they  had  in  them  a  rever- 
ence for  the  individual  conscience;  they  came 
from  Britain,  the  first  large  State  in  the  Christian 
era  to  build  up  the  idea  of  political  freedom.  The 
instincts  and  ideals  of  our  two  races  have  ever 
been  the  same.  That  great  and  lovable  people, 
the  French,  with  their  clear  thought  and  expres- 
sion, and  their  quick  blood,  have  expressed  those 
ideals  more  vividly  than  either  of  us.  But  the 
phlegmatic  and  the  dr}^  tenacity  of  our  EngHsh 
and  American  temperaments  has  ever  made  our 
countries  the  most  settled  and  safe  homes  of  the 
individual  conscience,  and  of  its  children — Democ- 
racy, Freedom  and  Internationalism.  Whatever 
their  faults — and  their  offences  cry  aloud  to  such 

107 


AMERICAN  AND  BRITON 

poor  heaven  as  remains  of  chivalry  and  mercy — 
the  Germans  are  in  many  ways  a  great  race,  but 
they  possess  two  quahties  dangerous  to  the  indi- 
vidual conscience — unquestioning  obedience  and 
exaltation.  When  they  embrace  the  democratic 
idea  they  may  surpass  us  all  in  its  logical  develop- 
ment, but  the  individual  conscience  will  still  not 
be  at  ease  with  them.  We  must  look  to  our  two 
countries  to  guarantee  its  strength  and  activity, 
and  if  we  English-speaking  races  quarrel  and  be- 
come disunited,  civilisation  will  split  up  again 
and  go  its  way  to  ruin.  We  are  the  ballast  of 
the  new  order. 

I  do  not  believe  in  formal  alliances  or  in  group- 
ing nations  to  fexclude  and  keep  down  other  na- 
tions. Friendships  between  countries  should  have 
the  only  true  reality  of  common  sentiment,  and 
he  animated  hy  desire  for  the  general  welfare  of 
mankind.  We  need  no  formal  bonds,  but  we 
have  a  sacred  charge  in  common,  to  let  no  petty 
matters,  differences  of  manner,  or  divergencies  of 
material  interest,  destroy  our  spiritual  agreement. 
Our  pasts,  our  geographical  positions,  our  tem- 
peraments make  us,  beyond  all  other  races,  the 
hope  and  trustees  of  mankind's  advance  along 
the  only  line  now  open — democratic  internation- 
alism. It  is  childish  to  claim  for  Americans  or 
Britons  virtues  beyond  those  of  other  nations,  or 

108 


AMERICAN  AND  BRITON 

to  believe  in  the  superiority  of  one  national  cul- 
ture to  another;  they  are  different,  that  is  all. 
It  is  by  accident  that  we  find  ourselves  in  this 
position  of  guardianship  to  the  main  line  of  human 
development;  no  need  to  pat  ourselves  on  the 
back  about  it.  But  we  are  at  a  great  and  crit- 
ical moment  in  the  world's  history — how  critical 
none  of  us  alive  will  ever  realise.  The  civilisation 
slowly  built  since  the  fall  of  Rome  has  either  to 
break  up  and  dissolve  into  jagged  and  isolated 
fragments  through  a  century  of  wars;  or,  unified 
and  reanimated  by  a  single  idea,  to  move  forward 
on  one  plane  and  attain  greater  height  and  breadth. 
Under  the  pressure  of  this  war  there  is,  beneath 
the  lip-service  we  pay  to  democracy,  a  disposition 
to  lose  faith  in  it  because  of  its  undoubted  weak- 
ness and  inconvenience  in  a  struggle  with  States 
autocratically  governed;  there  is  even  a  sort  of 
secret  reaction  to  autocracy.  On  those  Hues  there 
is  no  way  out  of  a  future  of  bitter  rivalries,  chi- 
canery and  wars,  and  the  probable  total  failure 
of  our  civilisation.  The  only  cure  which  I  can 
see  lies  in  democratising  the  whole  world  and 
removing  the  present  weaknesses  and  shams  of 
democracy  by  education  of  the  individual  con- 
science in  every  country.  Good-bye  to  that 
chance  if  Americans  and  Britons  fall  foul  of  each 
other,  refuse  to  pool  their  thoughts  and  hopes, 

109 


AMERICAN  AND  BRITON 

and  to  keep  the  general  welfare  of  mankind  in 
view.  They  have  got  to  stand  together,  not  in 
aggressive  and  jealous  policies,  but  in  defence  and 
championship  of  the  self-helpful,  self-governing, 
"live  and  let  live"  philosophy  of  life. 

The  house  of  the  future  is  always  dark.  There 
are  few  corner-stones  to  be  discerned  in  the  tem- 
ple of  our  fate.  But  of  these  few  one  is  the 
brotherhood  and  bond  of  the  English-speaking 
races,  not  for  narrow  purposes,  but  that  man- 
kind may  yet  see  faith  and  good-will  enshrined, 
yet  breathe  a  sweeter  air,  and  know  a  life  where 
Beauty  passes,  with  the  sun  on  her  wings. 

We  want  in  the  lives  of  men  a  "Song  of  Hon- 
our," as  in  Ralph  Hodgson's  poem: 

"The  song  of  men  all  sorts  and  kinds, 
As  many  tempers,  moods  and  minds 

As  leaves  are  on  a  tree, 
As  many  faiths  and  castes  and  creeds, 
As  many  human  bloods  and  breeds. 

As  in  the  world  may  be." 

In  the  making  of  that  song  the  Enghsh-speak- 
ing  races  will  assuredly  unite.  What  made  this 
world  we  know  not;  the  principle  of  life  is  inscru- 
table and  will  for  ever  be;  but  we  know  that  Earth 
is  yet  on  the  up-grade  of  existence,  the  mountain- 
top  of  man's  life  not  reached,  that  many  centuries 

110 


AMERICAN  AND  BRITON 

of  growth  are  yet  in  front  of  us  before  Nature 
begins  to  chill  this  planet  till  it  swims,  at  last, 
another  moon,  in  space.  In  the  climb  to  that 
mountain-top  of  a  happy  life  for  mankind  our 
two  great  nations  are  as  guides  who  go  before, 
roped  together  in  perilous  ascent.  On  their 
nerve,  loyalty,  and  wisdom  the  adventure  now 
hangs.  What  American  or  British  knife  will 
sever  the  rope  ? 

He  who  ever  gives  a  thought  to  the  life  of  man 
at  large,  to  his  miseries  and  disappointments,  to 
the  waste  and  cruelty  of  existence,  will  remember 
that  if  American  or  Briton  fail  himself,  or  fail  the 
other,  there  can  but  be  for  us  both,  and  for  all 
other  peoples,  a  hideous  slip,  a  swift  and  fearful 
fall  into  an  abyss,  whence  all  shall  be  to  begin 
over  again. 

We  shall  not  fail — neither  ourselves,  nor  each 
other.     Our  comradeship  will  endure. 

1917. 


Ill 


ANGLO-AMERICAN  DRAMA  AND  ITS 
FUTURE  * 

There  is  a  maxim  particularly  suitable  to  those 
who  follow  any  art:  ''Don't  talk  about  what  you 
do !"  And  yet,  once  in  a  way,  one  must  clear  the 
mind  and  put  into  words  what  lies  at  the  back 
of  endeavour. 

What,  then,  is  lying  at  the  back  of  any  growth 
or  development  there  may  have  been  of  late  in 
drama? 

In  my  belief,  simply  an  outcrop  of  sincerity — 
of  fidelity  to  mood,  to  impression,  to  self.  A 
man  here  and  there  has  turned  up  who  has 
imagined  something  true  to  what  he  has  really 
seen  and  felt,  and  has  projected  it  across  the  foot- 
lights in  such  a  way  as  to  make  other  people  feel 
it.  This  is  all  that  has  happened  lately  on  our 
stage.  And  if  it  be  growth,  it  will  not  be  growth 
in  quantity,  since  there  is  nothing  like  sincerity 
for  closing  the  doors  of  theatres.  For,  just  con- 
sider what  sincerity  excludes:  All  care  for  balance 
at  the  author's  bank — even  when  there  is  no  bal- 
ance; all  habit  of  consulting  the  expression  on 

*  The  first  part  of  this  paper  was  published  in  the  Hibbert 
Journal  in  1910. 

112 


ANGLO-AMERICAN  DRAMA 

the  public's  face;  all  confectioning  of  French 
plays;  all  the  convenient  practice  of  adding  up 
your  plots  on  the  principle  that  two  and  two 
make  five.  These  it  excludes.  It  includes :  Noth- 
ing because  it  pays;  nothing  because  it  will  make 
a  sensation;  no  situations  faked;  no  characters 
falsified;  no  fireworks;  only  something  imagined 
and  put  down  in  a  passion  of  sincerity.  What 
plays,  you  may  say,  are  left?  Well,  that  was 
the  development  in  our  drama  before  this  war 
began.  The  war  arrested  it,  as  it  arrested  every 
movement  of  the  day  in  civil  life.  But  whether 
in  war  or  peace,  the  principles  which  underlie  art 
remain  the  same  and  are  always  worth  consid- 
eration. 

Sincerity  in  the  theatre  and  commercial  success 
are  not  necessarily,  but  they  are  generally,  op- 
posed. It  is  more  or  less  a  happy  accident  when 
they  coincide.  This  grim  truth  cannot  be  blinked. 
Not  till  the  heavens  fall  will  the  majority  of  the 
public  demand  sincerity.  And  all  that  they  who 
care  for  sincerity  can  hope  for  is  that  the  supply 
of  sincere  drama  will  gradually  increase  the  de- 
mand for  it — ^gradually  lessen  the  majority  which 
has  no  use  for  that  disturbing  quality.  The  bur- 
den of  this  struggle  is  on  the  shoulders  of  the 
dramatists.  It  is  useless  and  unworthy  for  them 
to  complain  that  the  public  will  not  stand  sin- 

113 


ANGLO-AMERICAN   DRAMA 

cerity,  that  they  cannot  get  sincere  plays  acted, 
and  so  forth.  If  the}-  have  not  the  backbone  to 
produce  what  they  feel  they  ought  to  produce, 
without  regard  to  what  the  pubUc  wants,  then 
good-bye  to  progress  of  any  kind.  If  they  are  of 
the  crew  who  cannot  see  any  good  in  a  fight  un- 
less they  know  it  is  going  to  end  in  victory-;  if 
they  expect  the  millennium  with  every  spring — 
they  will  advance  nothing.  Their  job  is  to  set 
their  teeth,  do  their  work  in  their  own  way,  with- 
out thinking  much  about  result,  and  not  at  all 
about  reward,  except  from  their  own  consciences. 
Those  who  want  sincerity  will  always  be  the  few, 
but  they  may  well  be  more  numerous  than  now; 
and  to  increase  their  number  is  worth  a  struggle. 
That  struggle  was  the  much-sneered-at,  much- 
talked-of  so-called  "new"  movement  in  our  Brit- 
ish drama. 

Now  it  was  the  fashion  to  dub  this  new  drama 
the  "serious"  drama;  the  label  was  unfortunate, 
and  not  particularly  true.  If  Rabelais  or  Robert 
Burns  appeared  again  in  mortal  form  and  took 
to  writing  plays,  they  would  be  "new"  dramatists 
with  a  vengeance — as  new  as  ever  Ibsen  was,  and 
assuredly  they  would  be  sincere.  But  could  they 
well  be  called  "serious"?  Can  we  call  Synge, 
or  St.  John  Hankin,  or  Shaw,  or  Barrie  serious? 
Hardly !    Yet  they  are  all  of  this  new  movement 

114 


AND  ITS  FUTURE 

in  their  very  different  ways,  because  they  are 
sincere.  The  word  "serious,"  in  fact,  has  too 
narrow  a  significance  and  admits  a  deal  of  pom- 
pous stuff  which  is  not  sincere.  While  the  word 
''sincere"  certainly  does  not  characterise  all  that 
is  popularly  included  under  the  term  "new 
drama,"  it  as  certainly  does  characterise  (if  taken 
in  its  true  sense  of  fidelity  to  self)  all  that  is  really 
new  in  it,  and  excludes  no  mood,  no  temperament, 
no  form  of  expression  which  can  pass  the  test  of 
ringing  true.  Look,  for  example,  at  the  work  of 
those  two  whom  we  could  so  ill  spare — Synge 
and  St.  John  Hankin.  They  were  as  far  apart  as 
dramatists  well  could  be,  except  that  each  had 
found  a  special  medium — the  one  a  kind  of  lyric 
satire,  the  other  a  neat,  individual  sort  of  comed}^ 
— which  seemed  exactly  to  express  his  spirit. 
Both  forms  were  in  a  sense  artificial,  but  both 
were  quite  sincere;  for  through  them  each  of 
these  two  dramatists,  so  utterly  dissimilar,  shaped 
forth  the  essence  of  his  broodings  and  visions  of 
life,  with  all  their  flavour  and  individual  limita- 
tions. And  that  is  all  one  means  by — all  one 
asks  of — sincerity. 

Then  why  make  such  a  fuss  about  it  ? 

Because  it  is  rare,  and  an  implicit  quality  of 
any  true  work  of  art,  realistic  or  romantic. 

Art  is  not  art  unless  it  is  made  out  of  an  artist's 
115 


ANGLO-AMERICAN  DRAMA 

genuine  feeling  and  vision,  not  out  of  what  he  has 
been  told  he  ought  to  feel  and  see.  For  art  exists 
not  to  confirm  people  in  their  tastes  and  preju- 
dices, not  to  show  them  what  they  have  seen 
before,  but  to  present  them  with  a  new  vision  of 
life.  And  if  drama  be  an  art  (which  the  great 
public  denies  daily,  but  a  few  of  us  still  beheve), 
it  must  reasonably  be  expected  to  present  life  as 
each  dramatist  sees  it,  and  not  to  express  things 
because  they  pander  to  popular  prejudice,  or  are 
sensational,  or  because  they  pay. 

If  you  want  further  evidence  that  the  new  dra- 
matic movement  is  marked  out  by  its  struggle 
for  sincerity,  and  by  that  alone,  examine  a  little 
the  various  half-overt  oppositions  with  which  it 
meets. 

Why  is  the  commercial  manager  against  it? 

Because  it  is  quite  naturally  his  business  to 
cater  for  the  great  public ;  and,  as  before  said,  the 
majority  of  the  public  does  not,  never  will,  want 
sincerity;  it  is  too  disturbing.  The  conmiercial 
manager  will  answer:  "The  great  pubhc  does  not 
dislike  sincerity,  it  only  dislikes  dullness."  Well ! 
Dullness  is  not  an  absolute,  but  a  very  relative 
term — a  term  likely  to  have  a  different  meaning 
for  a  man  who  knows  something  about  life  and 
art  from  that  which  it  has  for  a  man  who  knows 
less.    And  one  may  remark  that  if  the  great  pub- 

116 


AND  ITS  FUTURE 

lie's  standard  of  what  is  really  "amusing"  is  the 
true  one,  it  is  queer  that  the  plays  which  tickle 
the  great  public  hardly  ever  last  a  decade,  while 
the  plays  which  do  not  tickle  them  occasionally 
last  for  centuries.  The  "dullest"  plays,  one 
might  say  roughly,  are  those  which  last  the  long- 
est.   Witness  Euripides ! 

Why  are  so  many  actor-managers  against  the 
new  drama? 

Because  their  hearts  are  quite  naturally  set  on 
such  insincere  distortions  of  values  as  are  neces- 
sary to  a  constant  succession  of  "big  parts"  for 
themselves.  Sincerity  does  not  necessarily  ex- 
clude heroic  characters,  but  it  does  exclude  those 
mock  heroics  which  actor-managers  have  been 
known  to  prefer — not  to  real  heroics,  perhaps, 
but  to  simple  and  sound  studies  of  character. 

Why  is  the  Censorship  against  it  ? 

Because  censorship  is  quite  naturally  the  guar- 
dian of  the  ordinary  prejudices  of  sentiment  and 
taste,  and  quaintly  innocent  of  knowledge  that 
in  any  art  fidelity  of  treatment  is  essential  to  a 
theme.  Indeed,  I  am  sure  that  this  peculiar 
office  would  regard  it  as  fantastic  for  a  poor  devil 
of  an  artist  to  want  to  be  faithful  or  sincere.  The 
demand  would  appear  pedantic  and  extravagant. 

Some  say  that  the  critics  are  against  the  new 
drama.    That  is  not  in  the  main  true.    The  in- 

117 


ANGLO-AMERICAN  DRAMA 

clination  of  most  critics  is  to  welcome  anything 
with  a  flavour  of  its  own;  it  would  be  odd  indeed 
if  it  were  not  so — they  get  so  much  of  the  other 
food !  They  are,  in  general,  friends  to  sincerity. 
But  the  trouble  with  the  critic  is  rather  the  fixed 
idea.  He  has  to  print  his  opinion  of  an  author's 
work,  while  other  men  have  only  to  think  it ;  and 
when  it  comes  to  receiving  a  fresh  impression  of 
the  same  author,  his  already  recorded  words  are 
liable  to  act  on  him  rather  as  the  eyes  of  a  snake 
act  on  a  rabbit.  Indeed,  it  must  be  very  awk- 
ward, when  you  have  definitely  labelled  an 
author  this,  or  that,  to  find  from  his  next  piece  of 
work  that  he  is  the  other  as  well !  The  critic  who 
can  make  blank  his  soul  of  all  that  he  has  said 
before  may  indeed  exist — in  Paradise ! 

Why  is  the  greater  public  against  the  new 
drama? 

By  the  greater  public  I  in  no  sense  mean  the 
public  who  don't  keep  motor  cars — the  greater 
pubUc  comes  from  the  West-end  as  much  as  ever 
it  comes  from  the  East-end.  Its  opposition  to 
the  "new  drama"  is  neither  covert,  doubtful,  nor 
conscious  of  itself.  The  greater  public  is  like  an 
aged  friend  of  mine,  who,  if  you  put  into  his 
hands  anything  but  Sherlock  Holmes,  or  The 
Waverley  Novels,  says:  "Oh!  that  dreadful 
book!"    His  taste  is  excellent,  only  he  does  feel 

118 


AND  ITS  FUTURE 

that  an  operation  should  be  performed  on  all 
dramatists  and  novelists  by  which  they  should 
be  rendered  incapable  of  producing  anything  but 
what  my  aged  friend  is  used  to.  The  greater 
public,  in  fact,  is  either  a  too  well-dined  organism 
which  wishes  to  digest  its  dinner,  or  a  too  hard- 
worked  organism  longing  for  a  pleasant  dream.  I 
sympathise  with  the  greater  public  !  .  .  . 

A  friend  once  said  to  me:  "Champagne  has 
killed  the  drama."  It  was  half  a  truth.  Cham- 
pagne is  an  excellent  thing,  and  must  not  be  dis- 
turbed. Plays  should  not  have  anything  in  them 
which  can  excite  the  mind.  They  should  be  of  a 
quahty  to  just  remove  the  fumes  by  eleven  o'clock 
and  make  ready  the  organism  for  those  suppers 
which  were  eaten  before  the  war.  Another  friend 
once  said  to  me:  "It  is  the  rush  and  hurry  and 
strenuousness  of  modern  life  which  is  scotching 
the  drama."  Again,  it  was  half  a  truth.  Why 
should  not  the  hard-worked  man  have  his  pleas- 
ant dream,  his  detective  stor}^,  his  good  laugh? 
The  pity  is  that  sincere  drama  would  often  pro- 
vide as  agreeable  dreams  for  the  hard-worked 
man  as  some  of  those  reveries  in  which  he  now 
indulges,  if  only  he  would  try  it  once  or  twice. 
That  is  the  trouble — to  get  him  to  give  it  a  chance. 

The  greater  public  will  by  preference  take  the 
lowest  article  in  art  offered  to  it.     An  awkward 

119 


ANGLO-AMERICAN  DRAMA 

remark,  and  unfortunately  true.  But  if  a  better 
article  be  substituted,  the  greater  public  very 
soon  enjoys  it  eveiy  bit  as  much  as  the  article 
replaced,  and  so  on — up  to  a  point  which  we  need 
not  fear  we  shall  ever  reach.  Not  that  sincere 
dramatists  are  consciously  trying  to  supply  the 
public  with  a  better  article.  A  man  could  not 
write  anything  sincere  with  the  elevation  of  the 
public  as  incentive.  If  he  tried,  he  would  be  as 
lost  as  ever  were  the  Pharisees  making  broad  their 
phylacteries.  He  can  only  express  himself  sin- 
cerely by  not  considering  the  public  at  all.  People 
often  say  that  this  is  "cant,"  but  it  really  isn't. 
There  does  exist  a  type  of  mind  which  cannot  ex- 
press itself  in  accordance  with  what  it  imagines  is 
required;  can  only  express  itself  for  itself,  and 
take  the  usually  unpleasant  consequences.  This 
is,  indeed;  but  an  elementary  truth,  which  since 
the  beginning  of  the  world  has  lain  at  the  bottom 
of  all  real  artistic  achievement.  It  is  not  cant  to 
say  that  the  only  things  vital  in  drama,  as  in 
every  art,  are  achieved  when  the  maker  has  fixed 
his  soul  on  the  making  of  a  thing  which  shall  seem 
fine  to  himself.  It  is  the  only  standard;  all  the 
others — success,  monej^,  even  the  pleasure  and 
benefit  of  other  people — lead  to  confusion  in  the 
artist's  spirit,  and  to  the  making  of  dust  castles. 
To  please  your  best  self  is  the  only  way  of  being 

120 


AND  ITS  FUTURE 

sincere.  Most  weavers  of  drama,  of  course,  are 
perfectly  sincere  when  they  start  out  to  ply  their 
shuttles;  but  how  many  persevere  in  that  mood 
to  the  end  of  their  plays,  in  defiance  of  outside 
consideration?  Here — says  one  to  himself — it 
will  be  too  strong  meat;  there  it  will  not  be  suffi- 
ciently convincing;  this  natural  length  will  be  too 
short,  that  end  too  appalling;  in  such  and  such  a 
shape  I  shall  never  get  my  play  taken;  I  must 
write  that  part  up  and  tone  this  character  down. 
And  when  it  is  all  done,  effectively,  falsely — what 
is  there?  A  prodigious  run,  perhaps.  But — the 
grave  of  all  which  makes  the  life  of  an  artist  worth 
the  living.  Well!  well!  We  who  believe  this 
will  never  get  too  many  others  to  believe  it! 
Those  heavens  will  not  fall;  theatre  doors  will 
remain  open;  the  heavy  diners  will  digest,  and  the 
over-driven  man  will  dream.  And  yet,  with  each 
sincere  thing  made — even  if  only  fit  for  reposing 
within  a  drawer — its  maker  is  stronger,  and  will 
some  day,  perhaps,  make  that  which  need  not 
lie  covered  away,  but  reach  out  from  him  to  other 
men. 

It  is  a  wide  word — sincerity.  "A  Midsimuner 
Night's  Dream"  is  no  less  sincere  than  "Hamlet," 
"The  Mikado"  as  faithful  to  its  mood  of  satiric 
frohcking  as  Ibsen's  "Ghosts"  to  its  mood  of 
moral  horror.    Sincerity  bars  out  no  themes;  it 

121 


ANGLO-AMERICAN  DRAMA 

only  demands  that  the  dramatist's  moods  and 
\dsions  should  be  intense  enough  to  keep  him 
absorbed;  that  he  should  have  something  to  say 
so  engrossing  to  himself  that  he  has  no  need  to 
stray  here  and  there  and  gather  purple  plums  to 
eke  out  what  was  intended  to  be  an  apple  tart. 
Here  is  the  heart  of  the  matter:  You  cannot  get 
sincere  drama  out  of  those  who  do  not  see  and 
feel  with  sufficient  fervour;  and  you  cannot  get 
good  sincere  drama  out  of  those  who  will  not  hoe 
their  rows  to  the  very  end.  There  is  no  faking 
and  no  scamping  to  the  good  in  art.  You  may 
turn  out  the  machine-made  article  very  natty, 
but  for  the  real  hand-made  thing  you  must  have 
toiled  in  the  sweat  of  your  brow.  In  Britain  it  is 
a  little  difficult  to  persuade  people  that  the  writ- 
ing of  plays  and  novels  is  work.  To  many  it 
remains  one  of  those  inventions  of  a  certain  po- 
tentate for  idle  hands  to  do.  To  some  persons  in 
high  life,  and  addicted  to  field  sports,  it  is  still  a 
species  of  licensed  buffoonery,  to  be  regulated  by 
a  sort  of  circus-master  with  a  whip  in  one  hand 
and  a  gingerbread  nut  in  the  other.  By  the  truly 
simple  soul  it  is  thus  summed  up :  ''Work !  Why, 
'e  sits  writin'  all  day."  To  some,  both  green  and 
young,  it  shines  as  a  vocation  entirely  glorious 
and  exhilarating.  If  one  may  humbly  believe  the 
evidence  of  his  own  senses,  it  is  not  any  of  these, 

122 


AND  ITS  FUTURE 

but  a  patient  calling,  glamorous  now  and  then, 
but  with  fifty  minutes  of  hard  labour  and  yearn- 
ing to  every  ten  of  satisfaction.  Not  a  pursuit, 
maybe,  which  one  would  change,  but  then,  what 
man  with  a  profession  flies  to  others  that  he  knows 
not  of? 

Novelists,  it  is  true,  even  if  they  have  not  been 
taken  too  seriously  by  the  people  of  these  islands, 
have  for  a  long  time  past  respected  themselves, 
but  the  calling  of  a  dramatist  till  quite  of  late  has 
been  but  an  invertebrate  and  spiritless  concern. 
Pruned  and  prismed  by  the  censor,  exploited  by 
the  actor,  dragooned  and  slashed  by  the  manager, 
ignored  by  the  public,  who  never  even  bothered 
to  inquire  the  names  of  those  who  supplied  it 
with  digestives — it  was  a  slave's  job.  Thanks  to 
a  little  sincerity  it  is  not  now  a  slave's  job,  and 
will  not  again,  I  think,  become  one. 

From  time  to  time  in  that  vehicle  of  improvisa- 
tion, that  modem  fair}"  tale — our  daily  paper — 
we  read  words  such  as  these:  "What  has  become 
of  the  boasted  renascence  of  our  stage?"  or:  "So 
much  for  all  the  trumpeting  about  the  new 
drama!"  ^^^len  we  come  across  such  words,  we 
remember  that  it  is  only  natural  for  journals  to 
say  to-day  the  opposite  of  what  they  said  yester- 
day. For  they  have  to  suit  all  tastes  and  pre- 
serve a  decent  equilibrium ! 

123 


ANGLO-AMERICAN  DRAMA 

There  is  a  new  safeguard  of  the  self-respecting 
dramatist  which  no  amount  of  improvising  for  or 
against  will  explain  away.  Plays  are  now  not 
merely  acted,  they  are  published  and  read,  and 
will  be  read  more  and  more.  This  does  not  mean, 
as  some  say,  that  they  are  being  written  for  the 
study — they  were  never  being  written  more  de- 
liberately, more  carefully,  for  the  stage.  It  does 
mean  that  they  are  tending  more  and  more  to 
comply  with  fidelity  to  theme,  fidelity  to  self;  and 
therefore  are  more  and  more  able  to  bear  the 
scrutiny  of  cold  daylight.  And  for  the  first  time, 
perhaps,  since  the  days  of  Shakespeare  there  are 
dramatists  in  this  country,  not  a  few,  faithful  to 
themselves. 

Now,  all  this  is  not  merely  fortuitous.  For, 
however  abhorrent  such  a  notion  may  be  to  those 
yet  wedded  to  Victorian  ideals,  we  were,  even 
before  the  war,  undoubtedly  passing  through  great 
changes  in  our  philosophy  of  life.  Just  as  a  plant 
keeps  on  conforming  to  its  environment,  so  our 
beliefs  and  ideals  are  conforming  to  our  new 
social  conditions  and  discoveries.  There  is  in  the 
air  a  revolt  against  prejudice,  and  a  feehng  that 
things  must  be  re-tested.  The  spirit  which,  dwell- 
ing in  pleasant  places,  would  never  re-test  any- 
thing is  now  looked  on  askance.  Even  on  oiu* 
stage  we  are  not  enamoured  of  it.    It  is  not  the 

124 


AND  ITS  FUTURE 

artist's  business  (be  he  dramatist  or  other)  to 
preach.  Admitted!  His  business  is  to  portray; 
but  portray  truly  he  cannot  if  he  has  any  of  that 
gHb  doctrinaire  spirit,  devoid  of  the  insight  which 
comes  from  instinctive  sympathy.  He  must  look 
at  life,  not  at  a  mirage  of  life  compounded  of 
authority,  tradition,  comfort,  habit.  The  sincere 
artist,  by  the  very  nature  of  him,  is  bound  to  be 
curious  and  perceptive,  with  an  instinctive  crav- 
ing to  identify  himself  with  the  experience  of 
others.  This  is  his  value,  whether  he  express  it 
in  comedy,  epic,  satire,  or  tragedy.  Sincerity 
distrusts  tradition,  authority,  comfort,  habit;  can- 
not breathe  the  air  of  prejudice,  and  cannot  stand 
the  cruelties  which  arise  from  it.  So  it  comes 
about  that  the  new  drama's  spirit  is  essentially, 
inevitably  human  and — humane,  essentially  dis- 
tasteful to  many  professing  followers  of  the  Great 
Humanitarian,  who,  if  they  were  but  sincere, 
would  see  that  they  secretly  abhor  His  teachings 
and  in  practice  continually  invert  them. 

It  is  a  fine  age  we  Hve  in — this  age  of  a  devel- 
oping social  conscience,  and  worthy  of  a  fine  and 
great  art.  But,  though  no  art  is  fine  unless  it 
has  sincerity,  no  amount  of  sincere  intention  will 
serve  unless  the  expression  of  it  be  well-nigh  per- 
fect. An  author  is  judged,  not  by  intention  but 
by  achievement;  and  criticism  is  innately  inclined 

125 


ANGLO-AMERICAN   DRAMA 

to  remark  first  on  the  peccadillo  points  of  a  per- 
son, a  poem,  or  a  play.  If  there  be  a  scar  on  the 
forehead,  a  few  false  quantities,  or  weak  endings, 
if  there  is  an  absence  in  the  third  act  of  some  one 
who  appeared  in  the  first — it  is  always  much  sim- 
pler to  complain  of  this  than  to  feel  or  describe 
the  essence  of  the  whole.  But  this  very  pettiness 
in  our  criticism  is,  fortunately,  a  sort  of  safe- 
guard. The  French  writer  Buff  on  said:  ''Bien 
ecrire,  c^est  tout ;  car  bien  ecrire  c'est  hien  sentir, 
Men  penser,  et  bien  dire.''  .  .  .  Let  the  artist 
then,  by  all  means,  make  his  work  impeccable, 
clothe  his  ideas,  feelings,  visions,  in  just  such  gar- 
ments as  can  withstand  the  winds  of  criticism. 
He  himself  must  be  his  cruellest  critic.  Before 
cutting  his  cloth  let  him  very  carefully  determine 
the  precise  thickness,  shape,  and  colour  best  suited 
to  the  condition  of  his  temperature.  For  there  are 
still  playwrights  who,  working  in  the  full  blast  of 
an  affaire  between  a  poet  and  the  wife  of  a  stock- 
broker, will  murmur  to  themselves:  "Now  for 
a  little  lyricism!"  and  drop  into  it.  Or  when 
the  strong,  silent  stockbroker  has  brought  his  wife 
once  more  to  heel:  "Now  for  the  moral!"  and 
gives  it  us.  Or  when  things  are  getting  a  little 
too  intense:  "Now  for  humour  and  variety  !"  and 
bring  in  the  curate.  This  kind  of  tartan  kilt  is 
very  pleasant  on  its  native  heath  of  London;  but — 

J2') 


AND  ITS  FUTURE 

hardly  the  garment  of  good  writing.  Good  writ- 
ing is  only  the  perfect  clothing  of  mood — the  just 
right  form.  Shakespeare's  form,  you  will  say,  was 
extraordinarily  loose,  wide,  plastic;  but  then  his 
spirit  was  ever  changing  its  mood — a  true  chame- 
leon. And  as  to  the  form  of  Mr.  Shaw — who  was 
once  compared  with  Shakespeare — why !  there  is 
none.  And  yet,  what  form  could  so  perfectly  ex- 
press Mr.  Shaw's  glorious  crusade  against  stupid- 
ity, his  wonderfully  sincere  and  lifelong  mood  of 
sticking  pins  into  a  pig ! 

We  are  told,  ad  nauseam,  that  the  stage  has 
laws  of  its  own,  to  which  all  dramatists  must 
bow.  Quite  true !  The  stage  has  the  highly 
technical  laws  of  its  physical  conditions,  which 
cannot  be  neglected.  But  even  when  they  are  all 
properly  attended  to,  it  is  only  behind  the  elbow 
of  one  who  feels  strongly  and  tries  to  express  sin- 
cerely that  right  expression  stands.  The  imagi- 
native mood,  coming  who  knows  when,  staying 
none  too  long,  is  a  mistress  who  deserves,  and 
certainly  expects,  fidelity.  True  to  her  while  she 
is  there,  do  not,  when  she  is  not  there,  insult  her 
by  looking  in  every  face  and  thinking  it  will  serve ! 
These  are  laws  of  sincerity  which  not  even  a  paet- 
master  in  the  laws  of  the  stage  can  afford  to  neg- 
lect.   Anything  is  better  than  resorting  to  moral 

sentiments  and  solutions  because  they  are  cur- 

-t  07 


ANGLO-AMERICAN  DRAMA 

rent  coin,  or  to  decoration  because  it  is  "the 
thing."  And — as  to  humour:  though  nothing  is 
more  precious  than  the  genuine  topsy-turvy  feel- 
ing, nothing  is  more  pitifully  unhumorous  than 
the  dragged-in  epigram  or  dismal  knockabout, 
which  has  no  connection  with  the  persons  or 
philosophy  of  the  play. 

I  suppose  it  is  easy  to  think  oneself  sincere;  it 
is  certainly  difficult  to  be  that  same.  Imagine 
the  smile,  and  the  blue  pencil,  of  the  Spirit  of 
Sincerity  if  we  could  appoint  him  Censor.  I 
would  not  lift  my  pen  against  that  Censorship 
though  he  excised — as  perhaps  he  might — the 
haK  of  my  work.  Sometimes  one  has  a  glimpse 
of  his  ironic  face  and  his  swift  fingers,  busy  with 
those  darkening  pages.  Once  I  dreamed  about 
him.  It  was  while  a  certain  Commission  was  sit- 
ting on  the  British  Censorship,  which  still  so  ad- 
mirably guards  Insincerity,  and  he  was  giving 
evidence  before  them.  This,  I  remember,  was 
what  he  said : 

"You  wish  to  learn  of  me  what  is  sincerity? 
Look  into  yourselves,  for  what  hes  deepest  within 
you.  Each  living  thing  varies  from  every  other 
living  thing,  and  never  twice  are  there  quite  the 
same  set  of  premises  from  which  to  draw  conclu- 
sion. Give  up  asking  of  any  but  yourselves  for 
the  whereabouts  of  truth;  and  if  some  one  says 

128 


AND  ITS  FUTURE 

that  he  can  tell  you  where  it  is,  don't  believe  him; 
he  might  as  well  lay  a  trail  of  sand  and  think  it 
will  stay  there  for  ever."  He  stopped,  and  I 
could  see  him  looking  to  judge  what  impression 
he  had  made  upon  the  Commission.  But  those 
gentlemen  behaved  as  if  they  had  not  heard  him. 
The  Spirit  of  Sincerity  coughed.  "By  Jove,  gen- 
tlemen," he  said,  "it's  clear  you  don't  care  what 
impression  you  make  on  me.  Evidently  it  is  for 
me  to  learn  sincerity  from  you!" 

There  was  once  a  gentleman,  lately  appointed 
to  assist  in  the  control  of  the  exuberance  of  plays, 
who  stated  in  public  print  that  there  had  been 
no  plays  of  any  value  written  since  1885,  entirely 
denying  that  this  new  drama  was  any  better  than 
the  old  drama,  cut  to  the  pattern  of  Scribe  and 
Sardou.  Certainly,  novelty  is  not  necessarily  im- 
provement. Comparison  must  be  left  to  his- 
tory. But  it  is  just  as  well  to  remember  that  we 
are  not  born  connoisseurs  of  plays.  Without 
trying  the  new  we  shall  not  know  if  it  is  better 
than  the  old.  To  appreciate  even  drama  at  its 
true  value,  a  man  must  be  educated  just  a  little. 
When  I  first  went  to  the  National  Gallery  in  Lon- 
don I  was  struck  dumb  with  love  of  Landseer's 
stags  and  a  Greuze  damsel  with  her  cheek  glued 
to  her  own  shoulder,  and  became  voluble  from 
admiration  of  the  large  Turner  and  the  large 

129 


ANGLO-AMERICAN  DRAMA 

Claude  hung  together  in  that  perpetual  prize- 
fight !  At  a  second  visit  I  discovered  Sir  Joshua's 
''Countess  of  Albemarle"  and  old  Crome's 
"Mousehold  Heath,"  and  did  not  care  quite  so 
much  for  Landseer's  stags.  And  again  and  again 
I  went,  and  each  time  saw  a  little  differently,  a 
little  clearer,  until  at  last  my  time  was  spent 
before  Titian's  "Bacchus  and  Ariadne,"  Botti- 
celli's "Portrait  of  a  Young  Man,"  the  Francescas, 
Da  Messina's  little  "Crucifixion,"  the  Uccello 
battle  picture  (that  great  test  of  education),  the 
Velasquez  (?)  "Admiral,"  Hogarth's  "Five  Ser- 
vants," and  the  immortal  "Death  of  Procris." 
Admiration  for  stags  and  maidens — where  was 
it? 

This  analogy  of  pictures  does  not  pretend  that 
our  "new  drama"  is  as  far  in  front  of  the  old  as 
the  "Death  of  Procris"  is  in  front  of  Landseer's 
stags.  Alas,  no!  It  merely  suggests  that  taste 
is  encouraged  by  an  open  mind,  and  is  a  matter 
of  gradual  education. 

To  every  man  his  sincere  opinion !  But  before 
we  form  opinions,  let  us  all  walk  a  little  through 
our  National  Gallery  of  drama,  with  inquiring 
eye  and  open  mind,  to  see  and  know  for  ourselves. 
For,  to  know,  a  man  cannot  begin  too  young,  can- 
not leave  off  too  old.  And  always  he  must  have 
a  mind  which  feels  it  will  never  know  enough.    In 

130 


AND  ITS  FUTURE 

this  way  alone  he  will,  perhaps,  know  something 
before  he  dies. 

And  even  if  he  require  of  the  drama  only  buf- 
foonery, or  a  digestive  for  his  dinner,  why  not  be 
able  to  discern  good  buffoonery  from  bad,  and 
the  pure  digestive  from  the  drug  ? 

One  is,  I  suppose,  prejudiced  in  favour  of  this 
"new  drama"  of  sincerity,  of  these  poor  produc- 
tions of  the  last  fifteen  years,  or  so.  It  may  be, 
indeed,  that  many  of  them  will  perish  and  fade 
away.  But  they  are,  at  all  events,  the  expres- 
sion of  the  sincere  moods  of  men  who  ask  no 
more  than  to  serve  an  art,  which,  heaven  knows, 
has  need  of  a  little  serving. 

So  much  for  the  principles  underlying  the  ad- 
vance of  the  drama.  But  what  about  the  chances 
of  drama  itself  under  the  new  conditions  which 
will  obtain  when  the  war  ends  ? 

For  the  moment  our  world  is  still  convulsed, 
and  art  of  every  kind  trails  a  lame  foot  before  a 
public  whose  eyes  are  fixed  on  the  vast  and  bloody 
stage  of  the  war.  When  the  last  curtain  falls, 
and  rises  again  on  the  scenery-  of  Peace,  shall  we 
have  to  revalue  every^thing  ?  Surely  not  the  fun- 
damental truths;  these  reflections  on  the  spirit 
which  underlie  all  true  effort  in  dramatic  art  may 
stand  much  as  they  were  framed,  now  five  years 

131 


ANGLO-AMERICAN  DRAMA 

ago.  Fidelity  to  mood,  to  impression,  to  self  will 
remain  what  it  was — the  very  kernel  of  good 
dramatic  art;  whether  that  fidehty  will  find  a 
more  or  less  favourable  environment  remains  the 
interesting  speculation.  When  we  come  to  after- 
war  conditions  a  sharp  distinction  will  have  to  be 
drawn  between  the  chances  of  sincere  drama  in 
America  and  Britain.  It  is  my  strong  impression 
that  sincere  dramatists  in  America  are  going  to 
have  an  easier  time  than  they  had  before  the  war, 
but  that  with  us  they  are  going  to  have  a  harder. 
My  reasons  are  threefold.  The  first  and  chief 
reason  is  economic.  However  much  America 
may  now  have  to  spend,  with  her  late  arrival, 
vaster  resources,  and  incomparably  greater  re- 
cuperative power,  she  will  feel  the  economic 
strain  but  little  in  comparison  with  Britain. 
Britain,  not  at  once,  but  certainly  within  five 
years  of  the  war's  close,  will  find  that  she  has 
very  much  less  money  to  spend  on  pleasure. 
Now,  under  present  conditions  of  education, 
when  the  average  man  has  little  to  spend  on 
pleasure,  he  spends  it  first  in  gratifying  his  coarser 
tastes.  And  the  average  Briton  is  going  to  spend 
his  little  on  having  his  broad  laughs  and  his  crude 
thrills.  By  the  time  he  has  gratified  that  side  of 
himself  he  will  have  no  money  left.  Those  artists 
in  Britain  who  respect  aesthetic  truths  and  prac- 

132 


AND  ITS  FUTURE 

tise  sincerity  will  lose  even  the  little  support  they 
ever  had  from  the  great  public  there;  they  will 
have  to  rely  entirely  on  that  small  public  which 
always  wanted  truth  and  beauty,  and  will  want 
it  even  more  passionately  after  the  war.  But 
that  little  pubHc  will  be  poorer  also,  and,  I  think, 
not  more  nimierous  than  it  was.  The  British 
pubHc  is  going  to  be  spHt  more  definitely  into  two 
camps — a  very  big  and  a  very  little  camp.  What 
this  will  mean  to  the  drama  of  sincerity  only  those 
who  have  watched  its  struggle  in  the  past  will  be 
able  to  imderstand.  The  trouble  in  Britain — 
and  I  daresay  in  every  country — is  that  the  per- 
centage of  people  who  take  art  of  any  kind  seri- 
ously is  ludicrously  small.  And  our  impoverish- 
ment will  surely  make  that  percentage  smaller 
by  cutting  off  the  recruiting  which  was  always 
going  on  from  the  ranks  of  the  great  pubHc.  How 
long  it  will  take  Britain  to  recover  even  pre-war 
conditions  I  do  not  venture  to  suggest.  But  I 
am  pretty  certain  that  there  is  no  chance  for  a 
drama  of  truth  and  beauty  there  for  many  years 
to  come,  imless  we  can  get  it  endowed  in  such  a 
substantial  way  as  shall  tide  it  over — say — the 
next  two  decades.  What  we  require  is  a  Lon- 
don theatre  undeviatingly  devoted  to  the  produc- 
tion of  nothing  but  the  real  thing,  which  will  go 
its  own  way,  year  in,  year  out,  quite  without 

133 


ANGLO-AMERICAN  DRAMA 

regard  to  the  great  public;  and  we  shall  never  get 
it  unless  we  can  find  some  benevolent,  public- 
spirited  person  or  persons  who  will  place  it  in  a 
position  of  absolute  security.  If  we  could  secure 
this  endowment,  that  theatre  would  become  in  a 
very  few  years  the  most  fashionable,  if  not  the 
most  popular,  in  London,  and  even  the  great 
public  would  go  to  it.  Nor  need  such  a  theatre 
be  expensive — as  theatres  go — for  it  is  to  the 
mind  and  not  to  the  eye  that  it  must  appeal. 
A  sufficient  audience  is  there  ready;  what  is  lack- 
ing is  the  point  of  focus,  a  single-hearted  and 
coherent  devotion  to  the  best,  and  the  means  to 
pursue  that  ideal  without  extravagance  but  with- 
out halting.  Alas!  in  England,  though  people 
will  endow  or  back  almost  anything  else,  they 
will  not  endow  or  back  an  art  theatre. 

So  much  for  the  economic  difficulty  in  Britain; 
what  about  America?  The  same  cleavage  ob- 
tains in  public  taste,  of  course,  but  numbers  are 
so  much  larger,  wealth  will  be  so  much  greater, 
the  spirit  is  so  much  more  inquiring,  the  divisions 
so  much  less  fast  set,  that  I  do  not  anticipate  for 
America  any  block  on  the  line.  There  will  still 
be  plenty  of  money  to  indulge  every  taste. 

Art,  and  especially,  perhaps,  dramatic  art, 
which  of  all  is  most  dependent  on  a  favourable 
economic  condition,  will  gravitate  towards  ^^mer- 

134 


AND  ITS  FUTURE 

ica,  which  may  well  become  in  the  next  ten  years 
not  only  the  mother,  but  the  foster-mother,  of 
the  best  Anglo-Saxon  drama. 

My  next  reason  for  thinking  that  sincerity  in 
art  will  have  a  better  chance  with  Americans  than 
in  Britain  in  the  coming  years  is  psychological. 
They  are  so  young  a  nation,  we  are  so  old;  world- 
quakes  to  them  are  such  an  adventure,  to  us  a 
nerve-racking,  if  not  a  health-shattering  event. 
They  will  take  this  war  in  their  stride,  we  have 
had  to  climb  laboriously  over  it.  They  will  be 
left  buoyant;  we,  with  the  rest  of  Europe,  are 
bound  to  lie  for  long  years  after  in  the  trough  of 
disillusionment.  The  national  mood  with  them 
will  be  more  than  ever  that  of  inquiry  and  ex- 
ploit. With  us,  unless  I  make  a  mistake,  after  a 
spurt  of  hedonism — a  going  on  the  spree — there 
will  be  lassitude.  Every  European  country  has 
been  overtried  in  this  hideous  struggle,  and  Na- 
ture, with  her  principle  of  balance,  is  bound  to 
take  redress.  For  Americans  the  war,  nationally 
speaking,  will  have  been  but  a  bracing  of  the 
muscles  and  nerves,  a  clearing  of  the  skin  and 
eyes.  Such  a  mental  and  moral  condition  will 
promote  in  them  a  deeper  philosophy  and  a  more 
resolute  facing  of  truth. 

And  that  brings  me  to  my  third  reason.  The 
AmeTicBD.  outlook  will  be  pennanently  enlarged 

135 


ANGLO-AMERICAN  DRAMA 

by  this  tremendous  experience.  Materially  and 
spiritually  she  will  have  been  forced  to  witness 
and  partake  of  the  life,  thought,  culture,  and 
troubles  of  the  old  worid.  She  v/ill  have,  uncon- 
sciously, assimilated  much,  been  diverted  from 
the  beer  and  skittles  of  her  isolated  development 
in  a  great  new  coimtry.  Americans  will  find 
themselves  suddenly  grown  up.  Not  till  a  man 
is  grown  up  does  he  see  and  feel  things  deeply 
enough  to  venture  into  the  dark  well  of  sincerity. 
America  is  an  eager  nation.  She  has  always 
been  in  a  hurry.  If  I  had  to  point  out  the  capi- 
tal defect  in  the  attractive  temperament  of  the 
American  people,  I  should  say  it  was  a  passion 
for  short  cuts.  That  has  been,  in  my  indifferent 
judgment,  the  very  natural,  the  inevitable  weak- 
ness in  America's  spiritual  development.  The 
material  possibilities,  the  opportunities  for  growth 
and  change,  the  vast  spaces,  the  climate,  the 
continual  influxions  of  new  blood  and  new  habits, 
the  endless  shifts  of  life  and  environment,  all 
these  factors  have  been  against  that  deep  brood- 
ing over  things,  that  close  and  long  scrutiny  into 
the  deeper  springs  of  life,  out  of  which  the  sincer- 
est  and  most  lasting  forms  of  art  emerge;  nearly 
all  the  conditions  of  American  existence  during 
the  last  fifty  years  have  been  against  the  settled 
life  and  atmosphere  which  influence  men  to  the 

136 


AND  ITS  FUTURE 

re-creation  in  art  form  of  that  which  has  sunk 
deep  into  their  souls.  Those  who  have  seen  the 
paintings  of  the  Itahan  artist  Segantini  will  under- 
stand what  I  mean.  There  have  been  many 
painters  of  mountains,  but  none  whom  I  know  of 
save  he  who  has  reproduced  the  very  spirit  of 
those  great  snowy  spaces.  He  spent  his  life 
among  them  till  they  soaked  into  his  nerves,  into 
the  very  blood  of  him.  All  else  he  gave  up,  to 
see  and  feel  them  so  that  he  might  reproduce 
them  in  his  art.  Or  let  me  take  an  instance  from 
America.  That  enchanting  work  of  art  "Tom 
Sawyer  and  Huckleberry  Finn,"  by  the  great 
Mark  Twain.  What  reproduction  of  atmosphere 
and  life;  what  scent  of  the  river,  and  old-time 
country  life,  it  gives  off !  How  the  author  must 
have  been  soaked  in  it  to  have  produced  those 
books ! 

The  whole  tendency  of  our  age  has  been  away 
from  hand-made  goods,  away  from  the  sort  of 
life  which  produced  the  great  art  of  the  past. 
That  is  too  big  a  subject  to  treat  of  here.  But 
certainly  a  sort  of  feverish  impatience  has  pos- 
sessed us  all,  America  not  least.  It  may  be  said 
that  this  will  be  increased  by  the  war.  I  think 
the  opposite.  Hard  spiritual  experience  and  con- 
tact with  the  old  world  will  deepen  the  American 
character  and  cool  its  fevers,  and  Americans  will 

137 


ANGLO-AMERICAN  DRAMA 

be  more  thorough,  less  impatient,  will  give  them- 
selves to  art  and  to  the  sort  of  life  which  fosters 
art,  more  than  they  have  ever  yet  given  them- 
selves. Great  artists,  like  Whistler  and  Henr}^ 
James,  will  no  longer  seek  their  quiet  environ- 
ments in  Europe.  I  believe  that  this  war  will  be 
for  America  the  beginning  of  a  great  art  age;  I 
hope  so  with  all  my  heart.  For  art  will  need  a 
kind  home  and  a  new  lease  of  life. 

A  certain  humble  and  yet  patient  and  enduring 
belief  in  himself  and  his  own  vision  is  necessary' 
to  the  artist.  I  think  that  Americans  have  only 
just  begun  to  believe  in  themselves  as  artists, 
but  that  this  belief  is  now  destined  to  grow 
quickly.  America  has  a  tremendous  atmosphere 
of  her  own,  a  wonderful  life,  a  wonderful  country, 
but  so  far  she  has  been  skating  over  its  surface. 
The  time  has  come  when  she  will  strike  down, 
think  less  in  terms  of  material  success  and  ma- 
chine-made perfections.  The  time  has  come 
when  she  will  brood,  and  interpret  more  and 
more  the  underlying  truths,  and  body  forth  an 
art  which  shall  be  a  spiritual  guide,  shed  light, 
and  show  the  meaning  of  her  multiple  existence. 
It  will  reveal  dark  things,  but  also  those  quiet 
heights  to  which  man's  spirit  turns  foi*  rest  aild 
faith  in  this  bewildering  maze  of  a  world.  And 
to  this  art  about  to  come — art  inevitably  moves 

138 


AND  ITS  FUTURE 

slowly— into  its  own,  to  American  drama,  poetry, 
fiction,  miroic,  painting,  sculpture— sincerity,  aa 
unswerving  fidelity  to  self,  alone  will  bring  the 
dignity  worthy  of  a  great  and  free  people. 

1913-1917. 


139 


SPECULATIONS  * 

"When  we  surve}^  the  world  around,  the  won- 
drous things  which  there  abound" — especially 
the  developments  of  these  last  years — there  must 
come  to  some  of  us  a  doubt  whether  this  civilisa- 
tion of  ours  is  to  have  a  future.  Mr.  Lowes  Dick- 
enson, in  an  able  book,  "The  Choice  Before  Us," 
has  outlined  the  alternate  paths  which  the  world 
may  tread  after  the  war — "National  Militarism" 
or  "International  Pacifism."  He  has  pointed  out 
with  force  the  terrible  dangers  on  the  first  of  these 
two  paths,  the  ruinous  strain  and  ultimate  de- 
struction which  a  journey  down  it  will  inflict  on 
every  nation.  But,  holding  a  brief  for  Interna- 
tional Pacifism,  he  was  not,  in  that  book,  at  all 
events,  concerned  to  point  out  the  dangers  which 
beset  Peace.  When,  in  the  words  of  President 
Wilson,  we  have  made  the  world  safe  for  democ- 
racy, it  will  be  high  time  to  set  about  making  it 
safe  against  civilisation  itself. 

The  first  thing,  naturally,  is  to  ensure  a  good 
long  spell  of  peace.  If  we  do  not,  we  need  not 
trouble  ourselves  for  a  moment  over  the  future 
of  civilisation — there  will  be  none.    But  a  long 

*  A  paper  read  on  March  21st,  1918. 
140 


SPECULATIONS 

spell  of  peace  is  probable;  for,  though  human 
nature  is  never  uniform,  and  never  as  one  man 
shall  we  get  salvation;  sheer  exhaustion,  and  dis- 
gust with  its  present  bed-fellows — suffering,  sac- 
rifice, and  sudden  death — will  almost  surely  force 
the  world  into  international  quietude.  For  the 
first  time  in  history  organised  justice,  such  as  for 
many  centuries  has  ruled  the  relations  between 
individuals,  may  begin  to  rule  those  between 
States,  and  free  us  from  menace  of  war  for  a 
period  which  may  be  almost  indefinitely  pro- 
longed. To  perpetuate  this  great  change  in  the 
life  of  nations  is  very  much  an  affair  of  getting 
men  used  to  that  change ;  of  setting  up  a  Tribunal 
which  they  can  see  and  pin  their  faith  to,  which 
works,  and  proves  its  utility,  which  they  would 
miss  if  it  were  dissolved.  States  are  proverbially 
cynical,  but  if  an  International  Court  of  Justice, 
backed  by  international  force,  made  good  in  the 
settlement  of  two  or  three  serious  disputes,  allayed 
two  or  three  crises,  it  would  with  each  success 
gain  prestige,  be  firmer  and  more  difficult  to 
uproot,  till  it  might  at  last  become  as  much  a 
matter  of  course  in  the  eyes  of  the  cynical  States 
as  our  Law  Courts  are  in  the  eyes  of  our  enlight- 
ened selves. 

Making,  then,  the  large  but  by  no  means  hope- 
less assumption  that  such  a  change  may  come, 

141 


SPECULATIONS 

how  is  our  present  civilisation  going  to  "pan 
out"? 

In  Samuel  Butler's  imagined  country,  "Ere- 
whon,"  the  inhabitants  had  broken  up  all  ma- 
chinery, abandoned  the  use  of  money,  and  lived 
in  a  strange  elysium  of  health  and  beauty.  I 
often  wonder  how,  without  something  of  the  sort, 
modern  man  is  to  be  prevented  from  falling  into 
the  trombone  he  blows  so  loudly,  from  being 
destroyed  by  the  very  machines  he  has  devised 
for  his  benefit.  The  problem  before  modern  man 
is  clearly  that  of  becoming  master,  instead  of 
slave,  of  his  own  civilisation.  The  history  of  the 
last  hundred  and  fifty  years,  especially  in  Eng- 
land, is  surety  one  long  story  of  ceaseless  banquet 
and  acute  indigestion.  Certain  Roman  Emperors 
are  popularly  supposed  to  have  taken  drastic 
measures  during  their  feasts  to  regain  their  appe- 
tites; we  have  not  their  "slim"  wisdom;  we  do 
not  mind  going  on  eating  when  we  have  had  too 
much. 

I  do  not  question  the  intentions  of  civilisation 
— they  are  most  honourable.  To  be  clean,  warm, 
well  nourished,  healthy,  decently  leisured,  and 
free  to  move  quickly  about  the  world,  are  cer- 
tainly pure  benefits.  And  these  are  presumably 
the  prime  objects  of  our  toil  and  ingenuity,  the 
ideals  to  be  served,  by  the  discovery  of  steam, 

142 


SPECULATIONS 

electricity,  modern  industrial  machinery,  tele- 
phony, flying.  If  we  attained  those  ideals,  and 
stopped  there — well  and  good.  Alas!  the  amaz- 
ing mechanical  conquests  of  the  age  have  crowded 
one  on  another  so  fast  that  we  have  never  had 
time  to  digest  their  effects.  Each  as  it  came  we 
hailed  as  an  incalculable  benefit  to  mankind,  and 
so  it  was,  or  would  have  been,  if  we  had  not  the 
appetites  of  cormorants  and  the  digestive  powers 
of  elderly  gentlemen.  Our  civilisation  reminds 
one  of  the  corpse  in  the  Mark  Twain  story  which, 
at  its  own  funeral,  got  up  and  rode  with  the 
driver.  It  is  watching  itself  being  buried.  We 
discover,  and  scatter  discovery  broadcast  among 
a  society  uninstructed  in  the  proper  use  of  it. 
Consider  the  town-ridden,  parasitic  condition  of 
Great  Britain — the  country  which  cannot  feed  itself. 
If  we  are  beaten  in  this  war,  it  will  be  because  we 
have  let  our  industrial  system  run  away  with  us; 
because  we  became  so  sunk  in  machines  and 
money-getting  that  we  forgot  our  self-respect. 
No  self-rejecting  nation  would  have  let  its  food- 
growing  capacity  and  its  country  life  down  to  the 
extent  that  we  have.  If  we  are  beaten — which 
God  forbid — we  shall  deserve  our  fate.  And  why 
did  our  industrial  system  get  such  a  mad  grip  on 
us?  Bojause  we  did  not  master  the  riot  of  our 
inventions  and  discoveries.    Remember  the  spin- 

143 


SPECULATIONS 

ning  jenny — whence  came  the  whole  system  of 
Lancashire  cotton  factories  which  drained  a 
countr3'side  of  peasants  and  caused  a  deteriora- 
tion of  physique  from  which  as  yet  there  has 
been  no  recover}-.  Here  was  an  invention  which 
was  to  effect  a  tremendous  saving  of  labour  and 
be  of  sweeping  benefit  to  mankind.  Exploited 
without  knowledge,  scruple,  or  humanity,  it  also 
caused  untold  miseiy  and  grievous  national  harm. 
Read,  mark,  and  learn  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hammond's 
book,  "The  Town  Labourer."  The  spinning 
jenny  and  similar  inventions  have  been  the  forces 
which  have  dotted  beautiful  counties  of  England 
with  the  blackest  and  most  ill-looking  towns  in 
the  world,  have  changed  the  proportion  of  coun- 
tr}^-  to  town-dwellers  from  about  3  as  against  2 
in  1761  to  2  as  against  7  in  1911;  have  strangled 
our  powers  to  feed  ourselves,  and  so  made  us  a 
temptation  to  our  enemies  and  a  danger  to  the 
whole  world.  We  have  made  money  by  it;  our 
standard  of  wealth  has  gone  up.  I  remember 
having  a  long  talk  with  a  very  old  shepherd  on 
the  South  Downs,  whose  youth  and  early  mar- 
ried life  were  Hved  on  eight  shillings  a  week;  and 
he  was  no  exception.  Nowadays  our  agricultural 
wage  averages  over  thirty  shillings,  though  it 
buys  but  Httle  more  than  the  eight.  Still,  the 
standard  of  wealth  has  superficially  advanced,  if 

144 


I 


SPECULATIONS 

that  be  any  satisfaction.  But  have  health, 
beauty,  happiness  among  the  great  bulk  of  the 
population  ? 

Consider  the  master}^  of  the  air.  To  what  use 
has  it  been  put,  so  far?  To  practically  none, 
save  the  destruction  of  Hfe.  About  five  years 
before  the  war  some  of  us  in  England  tried  to 
initiate  an  international  movement  to  ban  the 
use  of  flying  for  military  purposes.  The  effort 
was  entirely  abortive.  The  fact  is,  man  never 
goes  in  front  of  events,  always  insists  on  disas- 
trously buying  his  experience.  And  I  am  inclined 
to  think  we  shall  continue  to  advance  backwards 
unless  we  intern  our  inventors  till  we  have  learned 
to  run  the  inventions  of  the  last  century  instead 
of  letting  them  run  us.  Counsels  of  perfection, 
however,  are  never  pursued.  But  what  can  we 
do?  We  can  try  to  ban  certain  outside  dangers 
internationally,  such  as  submarines  and  air-craft, 
in  war;  and,  inside,  we  might  establish  a  Board 
of  Scientific  Control  to  ensure  that  no  inventions 
are  exploited  under  conditions  obviously  harmful. 

Suppose,  for  instance,  that  the  spinning  jennj'- 
had  come  before  such  a  Board,  one  imagines  they 
might  have  said:  "If  you  want  to  use  this  pecu- 
liar novelty,  you  must  first  satisfy  us  that  your 
employees  are  going  to  work  under  conditions 
favourable  to  health" — in  other  words,  the  Fac- 

145 


SPECULATIONS 

tory  Acts,  Town  Planning,  and  no  Child  Labour, 
from  the  start.  Or,  when  rubber  was  first  intro- 
duced: ""You  are  bringing  in  this  new  and,  we 
dare  say,  quite  useful  article.  We  shall,  how- 
ever, first  send  out  and  see  the  conditions  under 
which  you  obtain  it."  Having  seen,  they  would 
have  added:  "You  will  alter  those  conditions,  and 
treat  your  native  labour  humanely,  or  we  will 
ban  your  use  of  this  article,"  to  the  grief  and 
anger  of  those  periwig-pated  persons  who  write 
to  the  papers  about  grandmotherly  legislation 
and  sickly  sentimentalism. 

Seriously,  the  history  of  modem  civilisation 
shows  that,  while  we  can  only  tmst  individuaUsm 
to  make  discoveries,  we  cannot  at  all  trust  it  to 
apply  discovery  without  some  sort  of  State  check 
in  the  interests  of  health,  beauty,  and  happiness. 
Officialdom  is  on  all  our  nerves.  But  this  is  a 
very  vital  matter,  and  the  suggestion  of  a  Board 
of  Scientific  Control  is  not  so  fantastic  as  it  seems. 
Certain  results  of  inventions  and  discoveries  can- 
not, of  course,  be  foreseen,  but  able  and  impar- 
tial brains  could  foresee  a  good  many  and  save 
mankind  from  the  most  rampant  results  of  raw 
and  unconsidered  exploitation.  The  public  is  a 
child;  and  the  child  who  suddenly  discovers  that 
there  is  such  a  thing  as  candy,  if  left  alone,  can 
only  be  relied  on  to  make  itself  sick. 

146 


SPECULATIONS 

Let  us  stray  for  a  frivolous  moment  into  the 
realms  of  art,  since  the  word  art  is  claimed  for 
what  we  know  as  the  "film."  This  discoveiy 
went  as  it  pleased  for  a  few  years  in  the  hands  of 
inventors  and  commercial  agents.  In  these  few 
years  such  a  raging  taste  for  cowboy,  crime,  and 
Chaphn  films  has  been  developed,  that  a  Com- 
mission which  has  just  been  sitting  on  the  matter 
finds  that  the  public  will  not  put  up  with  more 
than  a  ten  per  cent,  proportion  of  educational 
film  in  the  course  of  an  evening's  entertainment. 
Now,  the  film  as  a  means  of  transcribing  actual 
life  is  admittedly  of  absorbing  interest  and  great 
educational  value;  but,  owing  to  this  false  start, 
we  cannot  get  it  swallowed  in  more  than  ex- 
tremely small  doses  as  a  food  and  stimulant, 
while  it  is  being  gulped  down  to  the  dregs  as  a 
drug  or  irritant.  Of  the  film's  claim  to  the  word 
art  I  am  frankly  sceptical.  My  mind  is  open — 
and  when  one  says  that,  one  generally  means  it 
is  shut.  But  art  is  long:  the  Cro-Magnon  men 
of  Europe  decorated  the  walls  of  their  caves  quite 
beautifully,  some  say  twenty-five,  some  say  sev- 
enty, thousand  years  ago ;  so  it  may  well  require  a 
generation  to  tell  us  what  is  art  and  what  is  not 
among  the  new  experiments  continually  being 
made.  Still,  the  film  is  a  restless  thing,  and  I 
cannot  think  of  any  form  of  art,  as  hitherto  we 

147 


SPECULATIONS 

have  understood  the  word,  to  which  that  descrip- 
tion could  be  appUed,  unless  it  be  those  Wagner 
operas  which  I  have  disliked  not  merely  since  the 
war  began,  but  from  childhood  up.  During  the 
filming  of  the  play  "Justice"  I  attended  at  re- 
hearsal to  see  Mr.  Gerald  du  Maurier  play  the 
cell  scene.  Since  in  that  scene  there  is  not  a 
word  spoken  in  the  play  itself,  there  is  no  differ- 
ence in  kind  between  the  appeal  of  play  or  film. 
But  the  live  rehearsal  for  the  filming  was  at  least 
twice  as  affecting  as  the  dead  result  of  that 
rehearsal  on  the  screen.  The  film,  of  course,  is 
in  its  first  youth,  but  I  see  no  signs  as  yet  that  it 
will  ever  overcome  the  handicap  of  its  physical 
conditions,  and  attain  the  real  emotionalising 
powers  of  art.  The  film  sweeps  up  into  itself,  of 
coui-se,  a  far  wider  surface  of  life  in  a  far  shorter 
space  of  time;  but  the  medium  is  flat,  has  no 
blood  in  it;  and  experience  tells  one  that  no 
amount  of  surface  and  quantity  in  art  ever  make 
up  for  lack  of  depth  and  quality.  Who  would 
not  cheerfully  give  the  Albert  Memorial  for  a 
little  figure  by  Donatello !  Since,  however,  the 
film  takes  the  line  of  least  resistance,  and  makes  a 
rapid,  lazy,  superficial  appeal,  it  may  very  well 
oust  the  drama.  And,  to  my  thinking,  of  course, 
that  will  be  all  to  the  bad,  and  intensely  charac- 
teristic of  machine-made  civilisation,  whose  motto 

148 


SPECULATIONS 

seems  to  be:  " Down  with  Shakespeare  and  Eurip- 
ides— up  with  the  Movies!"  The  film  is  a  very 
good  illustration  of  the  whole  tendency  of  mod- 
em life  under  the  too-rapid  development  of  ma- 
chines; roughly  speaking,  we  seem  to  be  turning 
up  yearly  more  and  more  gound  to  less  and  less 
depth.  We  are  getting  to  know  life  as  super- 
ficially as  the  Egyptian  interpreter  knew  language, 
who,  [as  we  read  in  the  Manchester  Guardian,] 
when  the  authorities  complained  that  he  was 
overstaying  his  leave,  wrote  back:  "My  absence 
is  impossible.  Some  one  has  removed  my  wife. 
My  God,  I  am  annoyed." 

There  is  an  expression — "high-brow" — maybe 
complimentary  in  origin,  but  become  in  some 
sort  a  term  of  contempt.  A  doubter  of  our  gen- 
eral divinity  is  labelled  "high-brow"  at  once,  and 
his  doubts  drop  like  water  off  the  pubHc's  back. 
Any  one  who  questions  our  triiunphant  progress 
is  tabooed  for  a  pedant.  That  will  not  alter  the 
fact,  I  fear,  that  we  are  growing  feverish,  rushed, 
and  complicated,  and  have  multiplied  conve- 
niences to  such  an  extent  that  we  do  nothing  with 
them  but  scrape  the  surface  of  life.  We  were 
rattling  into  a  new  species  of  barbarism  when 
the  war  came,  and  unless  we  take  a  pull,  shall 
continue  to  rattle  after  it  is  over.  The  under- 
lying cause  in  every  country  is  the  increase  of 

149 


SPECULATIONS 

herd-life,  based  on  machines,  money-getting,  and 
the  dread  of  being  dull.  Every  one  knows  how 
fearfully  strong  that  dread  is.  But  to  be  capable 
of  being  dull  is  in  itself  a  disease. 

And  most  of  modem  life  seems  to  be  a  process 
of  creating  disease,  then  finding  a  remedy  which 
in  its  turn  creates  another  disease,  demanding 
fresh  remedy,  and  so  on.  We  pride  ourselves, 
for  example,  on  scientific  sanitation;  well,  what  is 
scientific  sanitation  if  not  one  huge  palliative  of 
evDs,  which  have  arisen  from  herd-life,  enabhng 
herd-Hfe  to  be  intensified,  so  that  we  shall  pres- 
ently need  even  more  scientific  sanitation?  The 
old  shepherd  on  the  South  Downs  had  never  come 
in  contact  with  it,  yet  he  was  very  old,  very 
healthy,  hardy,  and  contented.  He  had  a  sort 
of  simple  dignity,  too,  that  we  have  most  of  us 
lost.  The  true  elixirs  vitce — for  there  be  two,  I 
think — are  open-air  life  and  a  proud  pleasure  in 
one's  work;  we  have  evolved  a  mode  of  existence 
in  which  it  is  comparatively  rare  to  find  these  two 
conjoined.  In  old  countries,  such  as  Britain,  the 
e\'ils  of  herd-life  are  at  present  vastly  more  acute 
than  in  a  new  country  such  as  America.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  further  one  is  from  hell  the  faster 
one  drives  towards  it,  and  machines  are  beginning 
to  run  along  with  America  even  more  violently 
than  with  Europe. 

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SPECULATIONS 

When  our  Tanks  first  appeared  they  were  de- 
scribed as  snouting  monsters  creeping  at  their 
own  sweet  will.  I  confess  that  this  is  how  my 
inflamed  eye  sees  all  our  modern  machines — ^mon- 
sters running  on  their  own,  dragging  us  along, 
and  very  often  squashing  us. 

We  are,  I  believe,  awakening  to  the  dangers  of 
this  "Gadarening,"  this  rushing  down  the  high 
cliff  into  the  sea,  possessed  and  pursued  by  the 
devils  of — machiner}'.  But  if  any  man  would 
see  how  little  alarmed  he  really  is — let  him  ask 
himself  how  much  of  his  present  mode  of  exist- 
ence he  is  prepared  to  alter.  Altering  the  modes 
of  other  people  is  delightful;  one  would  have 
great  hope  of  the  future  if  we  had  nothing  before 
us  but  that.  The  medieval  Irishman,  in  Froude, 
indicted  for  burning  down  the  cathedral  at 
Armagh,  together  with  the  Archbishop,  defended 
himself  thus:  "As  for  the  cathedral,  *tis  true  I 
burned  it;  but  indeed  an'  I  wouldn't  have,  only 
they  told  me  himself  was  inside."  We  are  all 
ready  to  alter  our  opponents,  if  not  to  bum  them. 
But  even  If  we  were  as  ardent  reformers  as  that 
Irishman  we  could  hardly  force  men  to  live  in 
the  open,  or  take  a  proud  pleasure  in  their  work, 
or  enjoy  beaut}^,  or  not  concentrate  themselves 
on  making  money.  No  amount  of  legislation 
will  make  us  *4ilies  of  the  field"  or  "birds  of  the 

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SPECULATIONS 

air,"  or  prevent  us  from  worshipping  false  gods, 
or  neglecting  to  reform  ourselves. 

I  once  wrote  the  unpopular  sentence,  "  Democ- 
racy at  present  offers  the  spectacle  of  a  man  man- 
ning down  a  road  followed  at  a  more  and  more 
respectful  distance  by  his  own  soul."  I  am  a 
democrat,  or  I  should  never  have  dared.  For 
democracy,  substitute  "Modern  Civilisation," 
which  prides  itself  on  redress  after  the  event, 
agility  in  getting  out  of  the  holes  into  which  it 
has  snouted,  and  eagerness  to  snout  into  fresh 
ones.  It  foresees  nothing,  and  avoids  less.  It  is 
purely  empirical,  if  one  may  use  such  a  ''high- 
brow" word. 

Politics  are  popularly  supposed  to  govern  the 
direction,  and  statesmen  to  be  the  guardian 
angels,  of  CiviKsation.  It  seems  to  me  that  they 
have  Uttle  or  no  power  over  its  growth.  They 
are  of  it,  and  move  with  it.  Their  concern  is 
rather  with  the  body  than  with  the  mind  or  soul 
of  a  nation.  One  needs  not  to  be  an  engineer  to 
know  that  to  pull  a  man  up  a  wall  one  must  be 
higher  than  he;  that  to  raise  general  taste  one 
must  have  better  taste  than  that  of  those  whose 
taste  he  is  raising. 

Now,  to  my  indifferent  mind,  education  in  the 
large  sense — not  politics  at  all — is  the  only  agent 
really  capable  of  improving  the  trend  of  civilisa- 

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SPECULATIONS 

tion,  the  only  lever  we  can  use.  Believing  this, 
I  think  it  a  thousand  pities  that  neither  Britain 
nor  America,  nor,  so  far  as  I  know,  any  other 
country,  has  as  yet  evolved  machinery  through 
which  there  might  be  elected  a  supreme  Director, 
or,  say,  a  little  Board  of  three  Directors,  of  the 
nation's  spirit,  an  Educational  President,  as  it 
were,  with  power  over  the  nation's  spirit  analogous 
to  that  which  America's  elected  political  Presi- 
dent has  over  America's  body.  Our  Minister  of 
Education  is  as  a  rule  an  ordinaiy  Member  of  the 
Government,  an  ordinaiy  man  of  affairs — though 
at  the  moment  an  angel  happens  to  have  strayed 
in.  WTiy  cannot  education  be  regarded,  like 
rehgion  in  the  past,  as  something  sacred,  not 
merely  a  department  of  political  administration? 
Ought  we  not  for  this  most  vital  business  of  edu- 
cation to  be  ever  on  the  watch  for  the  highest 
mind  and  the  finest  spirit  of  the  day  to  guide  us  ? 
To  secure  the  appointment  of  such  a  man,  or 
triumvirate,  by  democratic  means,  would  need  a 
special  sifting  process  of  election,  which  could 
never  be  too  close  and  careful.  One  might  use 
for  the  purpose  the  actual  body  of  teachers  in 
the  country  to  elect  delegates  to  select  a  jury  to 
choose  finally  the  flower  of  the  national  flock. 
It  would  be  worth  any  amount  of  trouble  to 
ensure  that  we  always  had  the  best  man  or  men. 

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SPECULATIONS 

And  when  we  had  them  we  should  give  them  a 
mandate  as  real  and  substantial  as  America  now 
gives  to  her  political  President.  We  should  in- 
tend them  not  for  mere  lay  administrators  and 
continuers  of  custom,  but  for  true  fountain-heads 
and  initiators  of  higher  ideals  of  conduct,  learn- 
ing, manners,  and  taste;  nor  stint  them  of  the 
means  necessary  to  carry  those  ideals  into  effect. 
Hitherto,  the  supposed  direction  of  ideals — in 
practice  almost  none — has  been  left  to  religion. 
But  religion  as  a  motive  force  is  at  once  too  per- 
sonal, too  lacking  in  unanimity,  and  too  special- 
ised to  control  the  educational  needs  of  a  modern 
State;  religion,  as  I  understand  it,  is  essentially 
emotional  and  individual;  when  it  becomes  prac- 
tical and  worldly  it  strays  outside  its  true  prov- 
ince and  loses  beneficence.  Education  as  I  want 
to  see  it  would  take  over  the  control  of  social 
ethics,  and  learning,  but  make  no  attempt  to 
usurp  the  emotional  functions  of  rehgion.  Let 
me  give  you  an  example :  Those  elixirs  vitce — open- 
air  life  and  a  proud  pleasure  in  one's  work — 
imagine  those  two  principles  drummed  into  the 
heads  and  hearts  of  all  the  little  scholars  of  the 
age,  by  men  and  women  who  had  been  taught  to 
believe  them  the  truth.  Would  this  not  gradu- 
ally have  an  incalculable  effect  on  the  trend  of 
our  civilisation?    Would  it  not  tend  to  create  a 

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SPECULATIONS 

demand  for  a  simple  and  sane  life;  help  to  get  us 
back  to  the  land;  produce  reluctance  to  work  at 
jobs  in  which  no  one  can  feel  pride  and  pleasure, 
and  so  diminish  the  power  of  machines  and  of 
commercial  exploitation?  But  teachers  could 
only  be  inspired  with  such  ideals  by  master  spirits. 
And  my  plea  is  that  we  should  give  ourselves  the 
chance  of  electing  and  making  use  of  such  mas- 
ter spirits.  We  all  know  from  everyday  life  and 
business  that  the  real,  the  only  problem  is  to  get 
the  best  men  to  run  the  show;  when  we  get  them 
the  show  runs  well,  when  we  don't  there  is  noth- 
ing left  but  to  pa}^  the  devil.  The  chief  defect 
of  modern  civilisation  based  on  democracy  is  the 
difficulty  of  getting  best  men  quickly  enough. 
Unless  Democracy — ^government  by  the  people — 
makes  of  itself  Aristocracy — ^government  by  the 
best  people — it  is  running  steadily  to  seed.  De- 
mocracy to  be  sound  must  utilise  not  only  the 
ablest  men  of  affairs,  but  the  aristocracy  of  spirit. 
The  really  vital  concern  of  such  an  elected  Head 
of  Education,  himself  the  best  man  of  all,  would 
be  the  discovery  and  emplojTiient  of  other  best 
men,  best  Heads  of  Schools  and  Colleges,  whose 
chief  concern  in  turn  would  be  the  discover}'  and 
employment  of  best  subordinates.  The  better 
the  teacher  the  better  the  ideals;  quite  obviously, 
the  only  hope  of  raising  ideals  is  to  raise  the  stan- 

155 


SPECULATIONS 

dard  of  those  who  teach,  from  top  to  toe  of  the 
educational  machine.  What  we  want,  in  short,  is 
a  sort  of  endless  band — throwing  up  the  finest 
spirit  of  the  day  till  he  forms  a  head  or  apex 
whence  virtue  runs  swiftly  down  again  into  the 
people  who  elected  him.  This  is  the  principle,  as 
it  seems  to  me,  of  the  universe  itself,  whose  sym- 
bol is  neither  circle  nor  spire,  but  circle  and  spire 
mysteriously  combined. 

America  has  given  us  an  example  of  this  in  her 
political  system;  perhaps  she  will  now  oblige  in 
her  educational.  I  confess  that  I  look  very  eagerly 
and  watchfully  towards  America  in  many  ways. 
After  the  war  she  will  be  more  emphatically  than 
ever,  in  material  things,  the  most  important  and 
powerful  nation  of  the  earth.  We  British  have  a 
legitimate  and  somewhat  breathless  interest  in 
the  use  she  will  make  of  her  strength,  and  in  the 
course  of  her  national  life,  for  this  will  greatly 
influence  the  course  of  our  own.  But  power  for 
real  light  and  leading  in  America  will  depend, 
not  so  much  on  her  material  wealth,  or  her  armed 
force,  as  on  what  the  attitude  towards  life  and 
the  ideals  of  her  citizens  are  going  to  be.  Amer- 
icans have  a  certain  eagerness  for  knowledge; 
they  have  also,  for  all  their  absorption  in  success, 
the  aspiring  eye.  They  do  want  the  good  thing. 
They  don't  always  know  it  when  they  see  it,  but 

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SPECULATIONS 

they  want  it.  These  quaUties,  in  combination 
with  material  strength,  give  America  her  chance. 
Yet,  if  she  does  not  set  her  face  against  "Gada- 
rening,"  we  are  all  bound  for  downhill.  If  she 
goes  in  for  spreadeagleism,  if  her  aspirations  are 
towards  quantity  not  quality,  we  shall  all  go  on 
being  commonised.  If  she  should  get  that  purse- 
and-power-proud  fever  which  comes  from  na- 
tional success,  we  are  all  bound  for  another  world 
flare-up.  The  burden  of  proving  that  democracy 
can  be  real  and  yet  live  up  to  an  ideal  of  health 
and  beauty  will  be  on  America's  shoulders,  and 
on  ours.  What  are  we  and  Americans  going  to 
make  of  our  inner  life,  of  our  individual  habits  of 
thought?  What  are  we  going  to  reverence,  and 
what  despise?  Do  we  mean  to  lead  in  spirit  and 
in  truth,  not  in  mere  money  and  guns?  Britain 
is  an  old  country,  still  in  her  prime,  I  hope;  but 
America  is  as  yet  on  the  threshold.  Is  she  to 
step  out  into  the  sight  of  the  world  as  a  great 
leader?  That  is  for  America  the  long  decision, 
to  be  worked  out,  not  so  much  in  her  Senate  and 
her  Congress,  as  in  her  homes  and  schools.  On 
America,  after  the  war,  the  destiny  of  civihsation 
may  hang  for  the  next  century.  If  she  mislays, 
indeed,  if  she  does  not  improve  the  power  of  self- 
criticism — that  special  dry  American  humour 
which  the  great  Lincoln  had — she  might  soon 

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SPECULATIONS 

develop  the  intolerant  provincialism  which  has 
so  often  been  the  bane  of  the  earth  and  the  un- 
doing of  nations.  If  she  gets  swelled-head  the 
world  will  get  cold-feet.  Above  all,  if  she  does 
not  solve  the  problems  of  town  life,  of  Capital 
and  Labour,  of  the  distribution  of  wealth,  of 
national  health,  and  attain  to  a  mastery  over 
inventions  and  machinery — she  is  in  for  a  cycle 
of  mere  anarchy,  disruption,  and  dictatorships, 
into  which  we  shall  all  follow.  The  motto  ^^  no- 
blesse oblige^'  applies  as  much  to  democracy  as 
ever  it  did  to  the  old-time  aristocrat.  It  applies 
with  terrific  vividness  to  America.  Ancestry  and 
Nature  have  bestowed  on  her  great  gifts.  Behind 
her  stand  Conscience,  Enterprise,  Independence, 
and  Ability — such  were  the  companions  of  the 
first  Americans,  and  are  the  comrades  of  Amer- 
ican citizens  to  this  day.  She  has  abounding 
energy,  an  unequalled  spirit  of  discovery;  a  vast 
territory  not  half  developed,  and  great  natural 
beauty.  I  remember  sitting  on  a  bench  over- 
looking the  Grand  Canyon  of  Arizona;  the  sun 
was  shining  into  it,  and  a  snow-storm  was  whirl- 
ing down  there.  All  that  most  marvellous  work 
of  Nature  was  flooded  to  the  brim  with  rose  and 
tawny-gold,  with  white,  and  wine-dark  shadows; 
the  colossal  carvings  as  of  huge  rock-gods  and 
sacrificial  altars,  and  great  beasts,  along  its  sides, 

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SPECULATIONS 

were  made  living  by  the  very  mystery  of  light 
and  darkness,  on  that  violent  day  of  spring — I 
remember  sitting  there,  and  an  old  gentleman 
passing  close  behind,  leaning  towards  me  and 
saying  in  a  sly,  gentle  voice:  "How  are  you  going 
to  tell  it  to  the  folks  at  home?"  America  has  so 
much  that  one  despairs  of  telling  to  the  folks  at 
home,  so  much  grand  beauty  to  be  to  her  an  in- 
spiration and  uplift  towards  high  and  free  thought 
and  vision.  Great  poems  of  Nature  she  has, 
wrought  in  the  large,  to  make  of  her  and  keep 
her  a  noble  people.  In  our  beloved  Britain — all 
told,  not  half  the  size  of  Texas — there  is  a  quiet 
beauty  of  a  sort  which  America  has  not.  I  walked 
not  long  ago  from  Worthing  to  the  little  village 
of  Steyning,  in  the  South  Downs.  It  was  such  a 
day  as  one  too  seldom  gets  in  England;  when  the 
sun  was  dipping  and  there  came  on  the  cool 
chalky  hills  the  smile  of  late  afternoon,  and 
across  a  smooth  valley  on  the  rim  of  the  Down 
one  saw  a  tiny  group  of  trees,  one  little  building, 
and  a  stack,  against  the  clear-blue,  pale  sk}^ — it 
was  like  a  glimpse  of  Heaven,  so  utterly  pure  in 
line  and  colour,  so  removed,  and  touching.  The 
tale  of  loveliness  in  our  land  is  varied  and  unend- 
ing, but  it  is  not  in  the  grand  manner.  America 
has  the  grand  manner  in  her  scenery  and  in  her 
blood,  for  over  there  all  are  the  children  of  adven- 

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SPECULATIONS 

ture  and  daring,  every  single  white  man  an  emi- 
grant himself  or  a  descendant  of  one  who  had  the 
pluck  to  emigrate.  She  has  alread}^  had  past- 
masters  in  dignity,  but  she  has  still  to  reach  as  a 
nation  the  grand  manner  in  achievement.  She 
knows  her  own  dangers  and  failings,  her  quahties 
and  powers;  but  she  cannot  realise  the  intense 
concern  and  interest,  deep  down  behind  our  pro- 
voking stolidities,  with  which  we  of  the  old  coun- 
try watch  her,  feeling  that  what  she  does  reacts 
on  us  above  all  nations,  and  will  ever  react  more 
and  more.  Underneath  surface  differences  and 
irritations  we  English-speaking  peoples  are  fast 
bound  together.  May  it  not  be  in  misery  and 
iron!  If  America  walks  upright,  so  shall  we;  if 
she  goes  bowed  under  the  weight  of  machines, 
money,  and  materialism,  we,  too,  shall  creep  our 
ways.  We  run  a  long  race,  we  nations;  a  genera- 
tion is  but  a  day.  But  in  a  day  a  man  may  leave 
the  track,  and  never  again  recover  it ! 

Democracies  must  not  be  content  to  leave  the 
ideals  of  health  and  beauty  to  artists  and  a  lei- 
sured class;  that  is  the  way  into  a  treeless,  water- 
less desert.  It  has  struck  me  forcibly  that  we 
Enghsh-speaking  democracies  are  all  right  under- 
neath, and  all  wrong  on  the  surface;  our  hearts 
are  sound,  but  our  skin  is  in  a  deplorable  condi- 
tion.   Our  taste,  take  it  all  round,  is  dreadful. 

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SPECULATIONS 

For  a  petty  illustration:  Ragtime  music.  Judg- 
ing by  its  popularity,  one  would  think  it  must  be 
a  splendid  discovery;  yet  it  suggests  little  or 
nothing  but  the  comic  love-making  of  two  darkies. 
We  ride  it  to  death;  but  its  jigging,  jogging,  jumpy 
jingle  refuses  to  die  on  us,  and  America's  young 
and  ours  grow  up  in  the  tradition  of  its  soul-for- 
saken sounds.  Take  another  tiny  illustration: 
The  new  dancing.  Developed  from  cake-walk,  to 
fox-trot,  by  way  of  tango.  Precisely  the  same 
spiritual  origin!  And  not  exactly  in  the  grand 
manner  to  one  who,  like  myself,  loves  and  believes 
in  dancing.  Take  the  "snappy"  side  of  journal- 
ism. In  San  Francisco  a  few  years  ago  the  Press 
snapped  a  certain  writer  and  his  wife,  in  their 
hotel,  and  next  day  there  appeared  a  photograph 
of  two  intensely  wretched-looking  beings  stricken 
by  limehght,  under  the  headhne:  "Blank  and  wife 
enjoy  freedom  and  gaiety  in  the  air."  Another 
writer  told  me  that  as  he  set  foot  on  a  car  leaving 
a  great  city  a  young  lady  grabbed  him  by  the 
coat-tail  and  cried:  "Say,  Mr.  Asterisk,  what  are 
your  views  on  a  future  life?"  Not  in  the  grand 
manner,  all  this;  but,  if  you  like,  a  sign  of  vitality 
and  interest;  a  mere  excrescence.  But  are  not 
these  excrescences  symptoms  of  a  fever  lying 
within  our  modern  civilisation,  a  febrility  which 
is  going  to  make  achievement  of  great  ends  and 

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great  work  more  difficult?  We  Britons,  as  a 
breed,  are  admittedly  stolid;  we  err  as  much  on 
that  score  as  Americans  on  the  score  of  restless- 
ness; yet  we  are  both  subject  to  these  excrescences. 
There  is  something  terribly  infectious  about  vul- 
garity; and  taste  is  on  the  down-grade  following 
the  tendencies  of  herd-life.  It  is  not  a  process  to 
be  proud  of. 

Enough  of  Jeremiads,  there  is  a  bright  side  to 
our  civilisation. 

This  modem  febrility  does  not  seem  able  to 
attack  the  real  inner  man.  If  there  is  a  lament- 
able increase  of  vulgarity,  supei-ficiality,  and  rest- 
lessness in  our  epoch,  there  is  also  an  inspiring 
development  of  certain  qualities.  Those  who 
were  watching  human  nature  before  the  war  were 
pretty  well  aware  of  how,  under  the  surface,  un- 
selfishness, ironic  stoicism,  and  a  warm  humanity 
were  growing.  These  are  the  great  Town  Vir- 
tues; the  fine  flowers  of  herd-life.  A  big  price  is 
being  paid  for  them,  but  they  are  almost  beyond 
price.  The  war  has  revealed  them  in  full  bloom. 
Revealed  them,  not  produced  them !  Who,  in  the 
future,  with  this  amazing  show  before  him,  will 
dare  to  talk  about  the  need  for  war  to  preserve 
courage  and  unselfishness?  From  the  first  shot 
these  wonders  of  endurance,  bravery,  and  sacrifice 
were  shown  by  the  untrained  citizens  of  countries 

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nearly  fifty  years  deep  in  peace!  Never,  I  sup- 
pose, in  the  world's  history,  has  there  been  so 
marvellous  a  display,  in  war,  of  the  bedrock  vir- 
tues. The  soundness  at  core  of  the  modern  man 
has  had  one  long  triumphant  demonstration. 
Out  of  a  million  instances,  take  that  little  story  of 
a  Mr.  Lindsay,  superintendent  of  a  pumping  sta- 
tion at  some  oil-wells  in  Mesopotamia.  A  valve 
in  the  oil-pipe  had  split,  and  a  fountain  of  oil  was 
being  thrown  up  on  all  sides,  while,  thirty  yards 
off,  and  nothing  between,  the  furnaces  were  in 
full  blast.  To  prevent  a  terrible  conflagration 
and  great  loss  of  life,  and  to  save  the  wells,  it  was 
necessary  to  shut  off  those  furnaces.  That  meant 
dashing  through  the  oil-stream  and  arriving  satu- 
rated at  the  flames.  The  superintendent  did  not 
hesitate  a  moment,  and  was  burnt  to  death. 
Such  deeds  as  this  men  and  women  have  been 
doing  all  through  the  war. 

When  you  come  to  think,  this  modem  man  is 
a  very  new  and  marvellous  creature.  Without 
quite  realising  it,  we  have  evolved  a  fresh  species 
of  stoic,  even  more  stoical,  I  suspect,  than  were 
the  old  Stoics.  Modern  man  has  cut  loose  from 
leading-strings;  he  stands  on  his  own  feet.  His 
religion  is  to  take  what  comes  without  flinching 
or  complaint,  as  part  of  the  day's  work,  which 
an  unknowable  God,  Providence,  Creative  Prin- 

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SPECULATIONS 

ciple,  or  whatever  it  shall  be  called,  has  appointed. 
Observation  tells  me  that  modern  man  at  large, 
far  from  inclining  towards  the  new,  personal, 
elder-brotherly  God  of  Mr.  Wells,  has  turned  his 
face  the  other  way.  He  confronts  life  and  death 
alone.  By  courage  and  kindness  modern  man 
exists,  warmed  by  the  glow  of  the  great  human 
fellowship.  He  has  re-discovered  the  old  Greek 
saying:  "God  is  the  helping  of  man  by  man";  has 
found  out  in  his  unselfconscious  way  that  if  he 
does  not  help  himself,  and  help  his  fellows,  he 
cannot  reach  that  inner  peace  which  satisfies. 
To  do  his  bit,  and  to  be  kind!  It  is  by  that 
creed,  rather  than  by  any  mysticism,  that  he 
finds  the  salvation  of  his  soul.  His  religion  is  to 
be  a  common-or-garden  hero,  without  thinking 
anything  of  it;  for,  of  a  truth,  this  is  the  age  of 
conduct. 

After  all,  does  not  the  only  real  spiritual 
warmth,  not  tinged  by  Pharisaism,  egotism,  or 
cowardice,  come  from  the  feeling  of  doing  your 
work  well  and  helping  others;  is  not  all  the  rest 
embroidery,  luxury,  pastime,  pleasant  sound  and 
incense?  Modern  man,  take  him  in  the  large, 
does  not  beheve  in  salvation  to  beat  of  drum;  or 
that,  by  leaning  up  against  another  pereon,  how- 
ever idolised  and  mystical,  he  can  gain  support. 
He  is  a  realist  with  too  romantic  a  sense,  perhaps, 

164 


SPECULATIONS 

of  the  mystery  which  surrounds  existence  to  pry 
into  it.  And,  Hke  modern  civiHsation  itself,  he 
is  the  creature  of  West  and  North,  of  atmospheres, 
climates,  manners  of  life  which  foster  neither  in- 
ertia, reverence,  nor  mystic  meditation.  Essen- 
tially man  of  action,  in  ideal  action  he  finds  his 
only  true  comfort;  and  no  attempts  to  discover 
for  him  new  gods  and  symbols  will  divert  him 
from  the  path  made  for  him  by  the  whole  trend 
of  his  existence.  I  am  sure  that  padres  at  the 
front  see  that  the  men  whose  souls  they  have 
gone  out  to  tend  are  living  the  highest  form  of 
religion;  that  in  their  comic  courage,  unselfish 
humanity,  their  endurance  without  whimper  of 
things  worse  than  death,  they  have  gone  beyond 
all  pulpit-and-death-bed  teaching.  And  who  are 
these  men?  Just  the  early  manhood  of  the  race, 
just  modern  man  as  he  was  before  the  war  began 
and  will  be  when  the  war  is  over. 

This  modern  world,  of  which  we  English  and 
Americans  are  perhaps  the  truest  types,  stands 
revealed,  from  beneath  its  froth,  frippery',  and 
vulgar  excrescences,  sound  at  core — a  world 
whose  imphcit  motto  is:  ''The  good  of  all  human- 
ity." But  the  herd-life,  which  is  its  character- 
istic, brings  many  evils,  has  many  dangers;  and 
to  preserve  a  sane  mind  in  a  healthy  body  is  the 
riddle  before  us.    Somehow  we  must  free  our- 

165 


SPECULATIONS 

selves  from  the  driving  domination  of  machines 
and  money-getting,  not  only  for  our  own  sakes 
but  for  that  of  all  mankind. 

And  there  is  another  thing  of  the  most  solemn 
importance:  We  English-speaking  nations  are  by 
chance  as  it  were  the  ballast  of  the  future.  It  is 
absolutely  necessary  that  we  should  remain  united. 
The  comradeship  we  now  feel  must  and  surely 
shall  abide.  For  unless  we  work  together,  and  in 
no  selfish  or  exclusive  spirit — good-bye  to  Civili- 
sation! It  will  vanish  like  the  dew  off  grass. 
The  betterment  not  only  of  the  British  nations 
and  America,  but  of  all  mankind,  is  and  must  be 
our  object. 

When  from  all  our  hearts  this  great  weight  is 
lifted;  when  no  longer  in  those  fields  death  sweeps 
his  scythe,  and  our  ears  at  last  are  free  from  the 
rustling  thereof — then  will  come  the  t^t  of  mag- 
nanimity in  all  countries.  W^ill  modem  man  rise 
to  the  ordering  of  a  sane,  a  free,  a  generous  life? 
Each  of  us  loves  his  own  country  best,  be  it  a  lit- 
tle land  or  the  greatest  on  earth;  but  jealousy  is 
the  dark  thing,  the  creeping  poison.  WTiere  there 
is  true  greatness,  let  us  acclaim  it;  where  there 
is  true  worth,  let  us  prize  it — as  if  it  were  our 
own. 

This  earth  is  made  too  subtly,  of  too  multiple 
warp  and  woof,  for  prophecy.    When  he  surveys 

166 


SPECULATIONS 

the  world  around,  the  wondrous  things  which 
there  abound,  the  prophet  closes  foolish  lips. 
Besides,  as  the  historian  tells  us:  "Writers  have 
that  undeterminateness  of  spirit  which  commonly 
makes  literary  men  of  no  use  in  the  world."  So 
I,  for  one,  prophesy  not.  Still,  we  do  know  this : 
All  English-speaking  peoples  will  go  to  the  adven- 
ture of  peace  with  something  of  big  purpose  and 
spirit  in  their  hearts,  with  something  of  free  out- 
look. The  world  is  wide  and  Nature  bountiful 
enough  for  all,  if  we  keep  sane  minds.  The  earth 
is  fair  and  meant  to  be  enjoyed,  if  we  keep  sane 
bodies.  Who  dare  affront  this  world  of  beauty 
with  mean  views?  There  is  no  darkness  but 
what  the  ape  in  us  still  makes,  and  in  spite  of  all 
his  monkey-tricks  modern  man  is  at  heart  further 
from  the  ape  than  man  has  yet  been. 

To  do  our  jobs  really  well  and  to  be  brotherly ! 
To  seek  health,  and  ensue  beauty !  If,  in  Britain 
and  America,  in  all  the  English-speaking  nations, 
we  can  put  that  simple  faith  into  real  and  thorough 
practice,  what  may  not  this  century  yet  bring 
forth?  Shall  man,  the  highest  product  of  crea- 
tion, be  content  to  pass  his  little  day  in  a  house, 
like  unto  Bedlam  ? 

When  the  present  great  task  in  which  we  have 
joined  hands  is  ended;  when  once  more  from  the 
shuttered  mad-house  the  figure  of  Peace  steps 

167 


SPECULATIONS 

forth  and  stands  in  the  sun,  and  we  may  go  our 
ways  again  in  the  beauty  and  wonder  of  a  new 
morning — let  it  be  with  this  vow  in  our  hearts: 
No  more  of  Madness — in  War,  in  Peace !^^ 

1917-18. 


(( 


1 


THE  LAND,  1917 


If  once  more  through  ingenuity,  courage,  and 
good  luck  we  find  the  submarine  menace  "well 
in  hand,"  and  go  to  sleep  again — if  we  reach  the 
end  of  the  war  without  having  experienced  any- 
sharp  starvation,  and  go  our  ways  to  trade,  to 
eat,  and  forget — What  then  ?  It  is  about  twenty 
years  since  the  first  submarine  could  navigate — 
and  about  seventeen  since  flying  became  practi- 
cable. There  are  a  good  many  years  yet  before 
the  world,  and  numberless  developments  in  front 
of  these  new  accomplishments.  Hundreds  of  mil(^ 
are  going  to  be  what  tens  are  now;  thousands  of 
machines  will  take  the  place  of  hundreds. 

We  have  ceased  to  live  on  an  island  in  any  save 
a  technically  geographical  sense,  and  the  sooner 
we  make  up  our  minds  to  the  fact,  the  better.  If 
in  the  future  we  act  as  we  have  in  the  past — rather 
the  habit  of  this  country — I  can  unagine  that  in 
fifteen  years'  time  or  so  we  shall  be  well  enough 
prepared  against  war  of  the  same  magnitude  and 
nature  as  this  war,  and  that  the  country  which 
attacks  us  will  launch  an  assault  against  defences 
as  many  years  out  of  date. 

169 


THE  LAND,   1917 

I  can  imagine  a  war  starting  and  well-nigh  end- 
ing at  once,  by  a  quiet  and  simultaneous  sink- 
ing, from  under  water  and  from  the  air,  of  most 
British  slnps,  in  port  or  at  sea.  I  can  imagine 
little  standardised  submarines  surreptitiously  pre- 
pared by  the  thousand,  and  tens  of  thousands  of 
the  enemy  population  equipped  with  flying  ma- 
chines, instructed  in  flying  as  part  of  their  ordi- 
nary civil  life,  and  ready  to  ser\"e  their  country 
at  a  moment's  notice,  by  taking  a  httle  flight 
and  dropping  a  little  charge  of  an  explosive  many 
times  more  destructive  than  any  in  use  now. 
The  agility  of  submarines  and  flying  machines 
will  grow  almost  indefinitely.  And  even  if  we 
carry  our  commerce  under  the  sea  instead  of  on 
the  surface,  we  shall  not  be  guaranteed  against 
attack  by  air.  The  air  menace  is,  in  fact,  infi- 
nitely greater  than  that  from  under  water.  I 
can  imagine  all  shipping  in  port,  the  Houses  of 
Parliament,  the  Bank  of  England,  most  commer- 
cial buildings  of  importance,  and  eveiy  national 
granary  wrecked  or  fired  in  a  single  night,  on  a 
declaration  of  war  springing  out  of  the  blue.  The 
only  things  I  cannot  imagine  wrecked  or  fired  are 
the  British  character  and  the  good  soil  of  Britain. 

These  are  sinister  suggestions,  but  there  is 
really  no  end  to  what  might  now  be  done  to  us 
by  any  country  which  deliberately  set  its  own 

170 


THE  LAND,   1917 

interests  and  safety  above  all  considerations  of 
international  right,  especially  if  such  country 
were  moved  to  the  soul  by  longing  for  revenge, 
and  believed  success  certain.  After  this  world- 
tragedy  let  us  hope  nations  may  have  a  little 
sense,  less  of  that  ghastly  provincialism  whence 
this  war  sprang;  that  no  nation  may  teach  in  its 
schools  that  it  is  God's  own  people,  entitled  to 
hack  through,  without  consideration  of  others; 
that  professors  may  be  no  longer  blind  to  all 
sense  of  proportion;  Emperors  things  of  the  past; 
diplomacy  open  and  responsible;  a  real  Court  of 
Nations  at  work;  Military  Chiefs  unable  to  stam- 
pede a  situation;  journalists  obliged  to  sign  their 
names  and  held  accountable  for  inflammatory 
writings.  Let  us  hope,  and  let  us  by  every  means 
endeavour  to  bring  about  this  better  state  of  the 
world.  But  there  is  many  a  slip  between  cup 
and  Up ;  there  is  also  such  a  thing  as  hatred.  And 
to  rely  blindly  on  a  peace  which,  at  the  best, 
must  take  a  long  time  to  prove  its  reality,  is  to 
put  our  heads  again  under  our  wings.  Once  bit, 
twice  shy.  We  shall  make  a  better  world  the 
quicker  if  we  try  realism  for  a  little. 

Britain's  situation  is  now  absurdly  weak,  with- 
out and  within.  And  its  weakness  is  due  to  one 
main  cause — the  fact  that  we  do  not  grow  our  own 
food.    To  get  the  better  of  submarines  in  this  war 

171 


THE  LAND,   1917 

will  make  no  difference  to  our  future  situation. 
A  little  peaceful  study  and  development  of  sub- 
marines and  aircraft  will  antiquate  our  present 
antidotes.  You  cannot  chain  air  and  the  deeps 
to  war  uses  and  think  you  have  done  with  their 
devilish  possibilities  a  score  of  years  afterwards 
because  for  the  moment  the  submarine  menace 
or  the  air  menace  is  "well  in  hand." 

At  the  end  of  the  w^ar  I  suppose  the  Channel 
Tunnel  will  be  made.  And  quite  time  too  !  But 
even  that  will  not  help  us.  We  get  no  food  from 
Europe,  and  never  shall  again.  Not  even  by 
linking  ourselves  to  Europe  can  we  place  ourselves 
in  security  from  Europe.  Faith  may  remove 
mountains,  but  it  will  not  remove  Britain  to  the 
centre  of  the  Atlantic.  Here  we  shall  remain, 
every  year  nearer  and  more  accessible  to  secret 
and  deadly  attack. 

The  next  war,  if  there  be  one — which  Man  for- 
bid— ^may  be  fought  without  the  use  of  a  single 
big  ship  or  a  single  infantrj^man.  It  may  begin, 
instead  of  ending,  by  being  a  war  of  starvation; 
it  may  start,  as  it  were,  where  it  leaves  off  this 
time.  And  the  only  way  of  making  even  reason- 
ably safe  is  to  grow  our  own  food.  If  for  years 
to  come  we  have  to  supplement  by  State  grana- 
ries, they  must  be  placed  underground;  not  even 
there  will  they  be  too  secure.    Unless  we  grow 

172 


THE  LAND,   1917 

our  own  food  after  this  war  we  shall  be  the  only 
great  country  which  does  not,  and  a  constant 
temptation  to  any  foe.  To  be  self-sufficing  will 
be  the  first  precaution  taken  by  our  present  ene- 
mies, in  order  that  blockade  may  no  longer  be  a 
weapon  in  our  hands,  so  far  as  their  necessary 
food  is  concerned. 

Whatever  arrangements  the  world  makes  after 
the  war  to  control  the  conduct  of  nations  in  the 
future,  the  internal  activities  of  those  nations 
will  remain  unfettered,  capable  of  deadly  shap- 
ing and  plausible  disguise  in  the  hands  of  able 
and  damnable  schemers. 

The  submarine  menace  of  the  present  is  merely 
awkward,  and  no  doubt  surmountable — it  is  noth- 
ing to  the  submarine-ct*m-air  menace  of  peace 
time  a  few  years  hence.  It  will  he  impossible  to 
guard  against  surprise  under  the  new  conditions. 
If  we  do  not  grow  our  own  food,  we  could  be 
knocked  out  of  time  in  the  first  round. 

But  besides  the  danger  from  overseas,  we  have 
an  inland  danger  to  our  future  just  as  formidable 
— the  desertion  of  our  countryside  and  the  town- 
blight  which  is  its  corollar}\ 

Despair  seizes  on  one  reading  that  we  should 
cope  with  the  danger  of  the  future  by  new  cot- 
tages, better  instruction  to  farmers,  better  kinds 
of  manure  and  seed,  encouragement  to  co-opera- 

173 


THE  LAND,   1917 

tive  societies,  a  cheerful  spirit,  and  the  storage 
of  two  to  three  years'  supply  of  grain.  Excellent 
and  necessary,  in  their  small  ways — they  are  a 
mere  stone  to  the  bread  we  need. 

In  that  programme  and  the  speech  which  put  it 
forward  I  see  insufficient  grasp  of  the  outer  peril 
and  hardly  any  of  the  gradual  destruction  with 
which  our  overwhelming  town  life  threatens  us; 
not  one  allusion  to  the  physical  and  moral  wel- 
fare of  our  race,  except  this:  "That  boys  should 
be  in  touch  with  country  life  and  country  tastes 
is  of  first  importance,  and  that  their  elementary 
education  should  be  given  in  terms  of  country 
things  is  also  of  enormous  importance."  That  is 
all,  and  it  shows  how  far  we  have  got  from  reality, 
and  how  difficult  it  will  be  to  get  back;  for  the 
the  speaker  was  once  Minister  for  Agriculture. 

Our  justifications  for  not  continuing  to  feed 
ourselves  were:  Pursuit  of  wealth,  command  of 
the  sea,  island  position.  Whatever  happens  in 
this  war,  we  have  lost  the  last  two  in  all  but  a 
superficial  sense.    Let  us  see  whether  the  first  is  * 

sufficient  justification  for  perseverance  in  a  mode  1 

of  life  which  has  brought  us  to  an  ugly  pass.  f 

Our  wonderful  industrialism  began  about  1766, 
and  changed  us  from  exporting  between  the  years 
1732  and  1766  11,250,000  quarters  of  wheat  to 
importing  7,500,000  quarters  between  the  years 

174 


THE  LAND,   1917 

1767  and  1801.  In  one  hundred  and  fifty  years 
it  has  brought  us  to  the  state  of  importing  more 
than  three-quarters  of  our  wheat,  and  more  than 
half  our  total  food.  Whereas  in  1688  (figures  of 
Gregory  and  Davenant)  about  four-fifths  of  the 
population  of  England  was  rural,  in  1911  only 
about  two-ninths  was  rural.  This  transforma- 
tion has  given  us  great  wealth,  extremely  ill-dis- 
tributed; plastered  our  country  with  scores  of 
busy,  populous,  and  hideous  towns;  given  us  a 
merchant  fleet  which  before  the  war  had  a  gross 
tonnage  of  over  20,000,000,  or  not  far  short  of 
half  the  world's  shipping.  It  has,  or  had,  fixed 
in  us  the  genteel  habit  of  eating  very  doubtfully 
nutritious  white  bread  made  of  the  huskless  flour 
of  wheat;  reduced  the  acreage  of  arable  land  in 
the  United  Kingdom  from  its  already  insufficient 
maximum  of  23,000,000  acres  to  its  1914  figure  of 
19,000,000  acres;  made  England,  all  but  its  to^ns, 
look  very  like  a  pleasure  garden;  and  driven  two 
shibboleths  deep  into  our  minds,  "AU  for  wealth" 
and  "Hands  off  the  food  of  the  people." 

All  these  "good"  results  have  had  certain  com- 
plementary disadvantages,  some  of  which  we 
have  just  seen,  some  of  which  have  long  been 
seen. 

Of  these  last,  let  me  first  take  a  small  senti- 
mental  disadvantage.    We   have   become   more 

175 


THE  LAND,   1917 

parasitic  by  far  than  any  other  nation.  To  eat 
we  have  to  buy  with  our  manufactures  an  over- 
whehning  proportion  of  our  vital  foods.  The 
blood  in  our  veins  is  sucked  from  foreign  bodies, 
in  return  for  the  clothing  we  give  them — not  a 
very  self-respecting  thought.  We  have  a  green 
and  fertile  country,  and  round  it  a  prolific  sea. 
Our  country,  if  we  will,  can  produce,  with  its 
seas,  all  the  food  we  need  to  eat.  We  know  that 
quite  well,  but  we  elect  to  be  nourished  on  foreign 
stuff,  because  we  are  a  practical  people  and  prefer 
shekels  to  sentiment.  We  do  not  mind  being 
parasitic.  Taking  no  interest  nationally  in  the 
growth  of  food,  we  take  no  interest  nationally  in 
the  cooking  of  it;  the  two  accomplishments  subtly 
hang  together.  Pride  in  the  food  capacity,  the 
com  and  wine  and  oil,  of  their  country  has  made 
the  cooking  of  the  French  the  most  appetising 
and  nourishing  in  the  world.  The  French  do 
cook:  we  open  tins.  The  French  preserve  the 
juices  of  their  home-grown  food:  we  have  no 
juices  to  preserve.  The  life  of  our  poorer  classes 
is  miserably  stunted  of  essential  salts  and  savours. 
They  throw  away  skins,  refuse  husks,  make  no 
soups,  prefer  pickle  to  genuine  flavour.  But 
home-grown  produce  really  is  more  nourishing 
than  tinned  and  pickled  and  frozen  foods.  If  we 
honestly  feed  ourselves  we  shall  not  again  demand 

176 


i 


THE  LAND,   1917 

the  old  genteel  flavourless  white  bread  without 
husk  or  body  in  it;  we  shall  eat  wholemeal  bread, 
and  take  to  that  salutary  substance,  oatmeal, 
which,  if  I  mistake  not,  has  much  to  say  in  mak- 
ing the  Scots  the  tallest  and  boniest  race  in 
Europe. 

Now  for  a  far  more  poignant  disadvantage. 
We  have  become  tied  up  in  teeming  congeries,  to 
which  we  have  grown  so  used  that  we  are  no 
longer  able  to  see  the  blight  they  have  brought 
on  us.  Our  great  industrial  towns,  sixty  odd  in 
England  alone,  with  a  population  of  15,000,000 
to  16,000,000,  are  our  glory,  our  pride,  and  the 
main  source  of  our  wealth.  They  are  the  growth, 
roughly  speaking,  of  five  generations.  They 
began  at  a  time  when  social  science  was  unknown, 
spread  and  grew  in  unchecked  riot  of  individual 
moneymaking,  till  they  are  the  nightmare  of 
social  reformers,  and  the  despair  of  all  lovers 
of  beauty.  They  have  mastered  us  so  utterl}^ 
morally  and  physically,  that  we  regard  them  and 
their  results  as  matter  of  course.  They  are  pub- 
lic opinion,  so  that  for  the  battle  against  town- 
blight  there  is  no  driving  force.  They  paral3'se 
the  imaginations  of  our  politicians  because  their 
voting  power  is  so  enormous,  their  commercial 
interests  are  so  huge,  and  the  food  necessities  of 
their  populations  seem  so  paramount. 

177 


THE  LAND,   1917 

I  once  bewailed  the  physique  of  our  towns  to 
one  of  our  most  cultivated  and  prominent  Con- 
servative statesmen.  He  did  not  agree.  He 
thought  that  probably  physique  was  on  the  up- 
grade. This  commonly  held  belief  is  based  on 
statistics  of  longevity  and  sanitation.  But  the 
same  superior  sanitation  and  science  applied  to  a 
rural  population  would  have  lengthened  the  lives 
of  a  much  finer  and  better-looking  stock.  Here 
are  some  figures:  Out  of  1,650  passers-by,  women 
and  men,  observed  in  perhaps  the  "best"  district 
of  London — St.  James's  Park,  Trafalgar  Square, 
Westminster  Bridge,  and  Piccadilly — in  May  of 
this  year,  only  310  had  any  pretensions  to  not 
being  very  plain  or  definitely  ugly — not  one  in 
five.  And  out  of  that  310  only  eleven  had  what 
might  be  called  real  beauty.  Out  of  120  British 
soldiers  observed  round  Charing  Cross,  sLxty — 
just  one-half — ^passed  the  same  standard.  But 
out  of  seventy-two  Australian  soldiers,  fifty-four, 
or  three-quarters,  passed,  and  several  had  real 
beauty.  Out  of  120  men,  women,  and  children 
taken  at  random  in  a  remote  country  village  (five 
miles  from  any  town,  and  eleven  miles  from  any 
town  of  10,000  inhabitants)  ninety — or  just  three- 
quarters  also — pass  this  same  standard  of  looks. 
It  is  significant  that  the  average  here  is  the  same 
as  the  average  among  Australian  soldiers,  who, 

178 


i 


THE   LAND,   1917 

though  of  British  stock,  come  from  a  country  as 
yet  unaffected  by  town  life.  You  ask,  of  course, 
what  standard  is  this?  A  standard  which  covers 
just  the  very  rudiments  of  proportion  and  come- 
Kness.  People  in  small  country  towns,  I  admit, 
have  Httle  or  no  more  beauty  than  people  in  large 
towns.  This  is  curious,  but  may  be  due  to  too 
much  inbreeding. 

The  first  counter  to  conclusions  drawn  from 
such  figures  is  obviously:  "The  English  are  an 
ugly  people."  I  said  that  to  a  learned  and 
aesthetic  friend  when  I  came  back  from  France 
last  spring.  He  started,  and  then  remarked: 
"Oh,  well;  not  as  ugly  as  the  French,  anyway." 
A  great  error;  much  plainer  if  you  take  the  bulk, 
and  not  the  pick,  of  the  population  in  both  coun- 
tries. It  may  not  be  fair  to  attribute  French 
superiority  in  looks  entirely  to  the  facts  that  they 
grow  nearly  all  their  own  food  (and  cook  it  well), 
and  had  in  1906  four-sevenths  of  their  population 
in  the  countr}''  as  against  our  own  two-ninths  in 
1911,  because  there  is  the  considerable  matter  of 
climate.  But  when  you  get  so  high  a  proportion 
of  comeliness  in  remote  country  districts  in  Eng- 
land, it  is  fair  to  assume  that  climate  does  not 
account  for  anything  like  all  the  difference.  I 
do  not  believe  that  the  English  are  naturally  an 
ugly  people.    The  best  English  type  is  perhaps 

179 


THE  LAND,   1917 

the  handsomest  in  the  world.  The  physique  and 
looks  of  the  richer  classes  are  as  notoriously  bet- 
ter than  those  of  the  poorer  classes  as  the  phy- 
sique and  looks  of  the  remote  country  are  supe- 
rior to  those  of  crowded  towns.  WTiere  condi- 
tions are  free  from  cramp,  poor  air,  poor  food, 
and  herd-life,  English  physique  quite  holds  its 
own  with  that  of  other  nations. 

We  do  not  realise  the  great  deterioration  of  our 
stock,  the  squashed-in,  stunted,  disproportionate, 
commonised  look  of  the  bulk  of  our  people,  be- 
cause, as  we  take  our  walks  abroad,  we  note  only 
faces  and  figures  which  strike  us  as  good-looking; 
the  rest  pass  unremarked.  Ugliness  has  become 
a  matter  of  course.  There  is  no  reason,  save 
town  life,  why  this  should  be  so.  But  what  does 
it  matter  if  we  have  become  ugly?  We  work 
well,  make  money,  and  have  lots  of  moral  quali- 
ties. A  fair  inside  is  better  than  a  fair  outside. 
I  do  think  that  we  are  in  many  ways  a  very 
wonderful  people;  and  our  townsfolk  not  the  least 
wonderful.  But  that  is  all  the  more  reason  for 
trj^ing  to  preserve  our  physique. 

Granted  that  an  expressive  face,  with  interest 
in  life  stamped  on  it,  is  better  than  "chocolate 
box"  or  "barber's  block"  good  looks,  that  agility 
and  strength  are  better  than  symmetry  without 
agility  and  strength;  the  trouble  is  that  there  is 

180 


THE  LAND,   1917 

no  interest  stamped  on  so  many  of  our  faces,  no 
agility  or  strength  in  so  many  of  our  limbs.  If 
there  were,  those  faces  and  limbs  would  pass  my 
standard.  The  old  Greek  cult  of  the  body  was 
not  to  be  despised.  I  defy  even  the  most  rigid 
Puritans  to  prove  that  a  satisfactory  moral  con- 
dition can  go  on  within  an  exterior  which  exhibits 
no  signs  of  a  live,  able,  and  serene  existence.  By 
living  on  its  nerves,  overworking  its  body,  starv^- 
ing  its  normal  aspirations  for  fresh  air,  good  food, 
sunlight,  and  a  modicum  of  solitude,  a  country 
can  get  a  great  deal  out  of  itself,  a  terrific  lot  of 
wealth,  in  three  or  four  generations;  but  it  is  liv- 
ing on  its  capital,  physically  speaking.  This  is 
precisely  what  we  show  every  sign  of  doing;  and 
partly  what  I  mean  by  "town-blight." 


II 

The  impression  I  get,  in  our  big  towns,  is  most 
peculiar — considering  that  we  are  a  free  people. 
The  faces  and  forms  have  a  look  of  being  pos- 
sessed. To  express  my  meaning  exactly  is  diffi- 
cult. There  is  a  dulled  and  driven  look,  and  yet 
a  general  ex-pression  of  "Keep  smiling — Are  we 
down-hearted?  No."  It  is  as  if  people  were  all 
being  forced  along  by  a  huge  invisible  hand  at 
the  back  of   their   necks,  whose  pressure  they 

181 


THE  LAND,   1917 

resent  yet  are  trying  to  make  the  best  of,  because 
they  cannot  tell  whence  it  comes.  To  under- 
stand, you  must  watch  the  grip  from  its  very 
beginnings.  The  small  children  who  swarm  in 
the  httle  grey  playground  streets  of  our  big  towns 
pass  their  years  in  utter  abandonment.  They 
roll  and  play  and  chatter  in  conditions  of  amazing 
unrestraint  and  devil-may-care-dom  in  the  midst 
of  amazing  dirt  and  ugliness.  The  younger  they 
are,  as  a  rule,  the  chubbier  and  prettier  they  are. 
Gradually  you  can  see  herd-life  getting  hold  of 
them,  the  impact  of  ugly  sights  and  sounds  com- 
monising  the  essential  grace  and  individuality  of 
their  little  features.  On  the  lack  of  any  standard 
or  restraint,  any  real  glimpse  of  Nature,  any 
knowledge  of  a  future  worth  striving  for,  or  in- 
deed of  any  future  at  all,  they  thrive  forward 
into  that  hand-to-mouth  mood  from  which  they 
are  mostly  destined  never  to  emerge.  Quick  and 
scattery  as  monkeys,  and  never  alone,  they  be- 
come, at  a  rake's  progress,  little  fragments  of  the 
herd.  On  poor  food,  poor  air,  and  habits  of  least 
resistance,  they  wilt  and  grow  distorted,  acquir- 
ing withal  the  sort  of  pathetic  hardihood  which 
a  Dartmoor  pony  will  draw  out  of  moor  life  in  a 
frozen  winter.  All  round  them,  by  day,  by 
night,  stretches  the  huge,  grey,  grimy  waste  of 
streets,  factory  walls,  chimneys,  murky  canals, 

182 


THE  LAND,   1917 

chapels,  public-houses,  hoardings,  posters,  butch- 
ers' shops — a  waste  where  nothing  beautiful  exists 
save  a  pretty  cat  or  pigeon,  a  blue  sky,  perhaps, 
and  a  few  trees  and  open  spaces.  The  children  of 
the  class  above,  too,  of  the  small  shop-people, 
the  artisans — do  they  escape?  Not  really.  The 
same  herd-life  and  the  same  sights  and  sounds 
pursue  them  from  birth;  they  also  are  soon 
divested  of  the  grace  and  free  look  which  you 
see  in  country  children  walking  to  and  from 
school  or  roaming  the  hedges.  Whether  true 
slum  children,  or  from  streets  a  little  better  off, 
quickly  they  all  pass  out  of  youth  into  the  iron 
drive  of  commerce  and  manufacture,  into  the 
clang  and  clatter,  the  swish  and  whirr  of  wheels, 
the  strange,  dragging,  saw-like  hubbub  of  indus- 
try, or  the  clicking  and  pigeon-holes  of  commerce; 
perch  on  a  devil's  see-saw  from  monotonous  work 
to  cheap  sensation  and  back.  Considering  the 
conditions  it  is  wonderful  that  they  stand  it  as 
well  as  they  do;  and  I  should  be  the  last  to  deny 
that  they  possess  remarkable  quahties.  But  the 
modem  industrial  English  town  is  a  sort  of  in- 
ferno where  people  dwell  with  a  marvellous  phi- 
losophy. What  would  you  have?  They  have 
never  seen  any  way  out  of  it.  And  this,  perhaps, 
would  not  be  so  pitiful  if  for  each  bond-servant 
of  our  town-tyranny  there  was  in  store  a  prize — 

183 


TPIE  LAND,   1917 

some  portion  of  that  national  wealth  in  pursuit 
of  which  the  tyrant  drives  us;  if  each  worker  had 
before  him  the  chance  of  emergence  at,  say,  fifty. 
But,  Lord  God !  for  five  that  emerge,  ninety-and- 
five  stay  bound,  less  free  and  wealthy  at  the  end 
of  the  chapter  than  they  were  at  the  beginning. 
And  the  quaint  thing  is — they  know  it;  know 
that  they  will  spend  their  lives  in  smoky,  noisy, 
crowded  drudgery,  and  in  crowded  drudgery  die. 
Wealth  goes  to  wealth,  and  all  they  can  hope  for 
is  a  few  extra  shilHngs  a  week,  with  a  correspond- 
ing rise  in  prices.  They  know  it,  but  it  does  not 
disturb  them,  for  they  were  born  of  the  towns, 
have  never  glimpsed  at  other  possibilities.  Ln- 
prisoned  in  town  life  from  birth,  they  contentedly 
perpetuate  the  species  of  a  folk  with  an  ebbing 
future.  Yes,  ebbing!  For  if  it  be  not,  why  is 
there  now  so  much  conscious  effort  to  arrest  the 
decay  of  town  workers'  nerves  and  sinews  ?  Why 
do  we  bother  to  impede  a  process  which  is  denied  ? 
If  there  be  no  town-blight  on  us,  why  a  million 
indications  of  uneasiness  and  a  thousand  httle 
fights  against  the  march  of  a  degeneration  so 
natural,  vast,  and  methodical,  that  it  brings  them 
all  to  naught?  Our  physique  is  slowly  rotting, 
and  that  is  the  plain  truth  of  it. 

But  it  does  not  stop  with  deteriorated  physique. 
Students  of  faces  in  the  remoter  countrj^  are 

184 


THE  LAND,  1917 

struck  by  the  absence  of  what,  for  want  of  a 
better  word,  we  may  call  vulgarity.  That  insidi- 
ous defacement  is  seen  to  be  a  thing  of  towns, 
and  not  at  all  a  matter  of  "class."  The  simplest 
country  cottager,  shepherd,  fisherman,  has  as 
much,  often  a  deal  more,  dignity  than  numbers  of 
our  upper  classes,  who,  in  spite  of  the  desire  to 
keep  themselves  unspotted,  are  still,  from  the 
nature  of  their  existence,  touched  by  the  herd-life 
of  modern  times.  For  vulgarity  is  the  natural 
product  of  herd-life;  an  amalgam  of  second-hand 
thought,  cheap  and  rapid  sensation,  defensive  and 
offensive  self-consciousness,  gradually  plastered 
over  the  faces,  manners,  voices,  whole  beings,  of 
those  whose  elbows  are  too  tightly  squeezed  to 
their  sides  by  the  pressure  of  their  fellows,  whose 
natures  are  cut  off  from  Nature,  whose  senses  are 
rendered  imitative  by  the  too  insistent  impact  of 
certain  sights  and  sounds.  Without  doubt  the 
rapid  increase  of  town-life  is  responsible  for  our 
acknowledged  vulgarity.  The  same  process  is 
going  on  in  America  and  in  Northern  Germany; 
but  we  unfortunately  had  the  lead,  and  seem  to 
be  doing  our  best  to  keep  it.  Cheap  newspapers, 
on  the  sensational  tip-and-run  system,  perpetual 
shows  of  some  kind  or  other,  work  in  association, 
every  kind  of  thing  in  association,  at  a  speed  too 
great  for  individual  digestion,  and  in  the  presence 

185 


THE  LAND,   1917 

of  every  device  for  removing  the  need  for  indi- 
vidual thought;  the  thronged  streets,  the  football 
match  with  its  crowd  emotions;  be^^ond  all,  the 
cinema — a  compendium  of  all  these  other  influ- 
ences— make  town-life  a  veritable  forcing-pit  of 
vulgarity.  We  are  all  so  deeply  in  it  that  we  do 
not  see  the  process  going  on;  or,  if  we  admit  it, 
hasten  to  add:  "But  what  does  it  matter? — 
there's  no  harm  in  vulgarity;  besides,  it's  inevi- 
table, you  can't  set  the  tide  back."  Obviously, 
the  vulgarity  of  town-life  cannot  be  exorcised  by 
Act  of  Parliament ;  there  is  not  indeed  the  faintest 
chance  that  Parliament  will  recognise  such  a  side 
to  the  question  at  all,  since  there  is  naturally  no 
public  opinion  on  this  matter. 

Everybody  must  recognise  and  admire  certain 
qualities  specially  fostered  by  town-life;  the 
extraordinary  patience,  cheerful  courage,  philo- 
sophic irony,  and  unselfishness  of  our  towns- 
people— qualities  which  in  this  war,  both  at  the 
front  and  at  home,  have  been  of  the  greatest 
value.  They  are  worth  much  of  the  price  paid. 
But  in  this  life  all  is  a  question  of  balance;  and 
my  contention  is,  not  so  much  that  town-life  in 
itself  is  bad,  as  that  we  have  pushed  it  to  a  point 
of  excess  terribly  dangerous  to  our  physique,  to 
our  dignity,  and  to  our  sense  of  beauty.  IVIust 
our  future  have  no  serene  and  simple  quality,  not 

186 


THE  LAND,   1917 

even  a  spice  of  the  influence  of  Nature,  with  her 
air,  her  trees,  her  fields,  and  wide  skies?  Say 
what  you  like,  it  is  elbow-room  for  limbs  and 
mind  and  lungs  which  keeps  the  countryman  free 
from  that  dulled  and  driven  look,  and  gives  him 
individuality.  I  know  all  about  the  "dullness" 
and  "monotony"  of  rural  life,  bad  housing  and 
the  rest  of  it.  All  true  enough,  but  the  cure  is 
not  exodus,  it  is  improvement  in  rural-life  condi- 
tions, more  co-operation,  better  cottages,  a  fuller, 
freer  social  life.  What  we  in  England  now  want 
more  than  anything  is  air — for  lungs  and  mind. 
We  have  overdone  herd-life.  We  are  dimly  con- 
scious of  this,  feel  vaguely  that  there  is  something 
"rattHng"  and  wrong  about  our  progress,  for  we 
have  had  many  little  spasmodic  "movements" 
back  to  the  land  these  last  few  years.  But  what 
do  they  amount  to?  WTiereas  in  1901  the  pro- 
portion of  town  to  country-  population  in  England 
and  Wales  was  31 J — 1,  in  1911  it  was  3^-^ — 1; 
very  distinctly  greater !  At  this  crab's  march  we 
shall  be  some  time  getting  "back  to  the  land." 
Our  effort,  so  far,  has  been  something  Uke  our 
revival  of  Mon'is  dancing,  very  pleasant  and 
aesthetic,  but  without  real  economic  basis  or 
strength  to  stand  up  against  the  lure  of  the  towns. 
And  how  queer,  ironical,  and  pitiful  is  that  lure, 
when  you  consider  that  in  towns  one-third  of  the 

187 


THE  LAND,  1917 

population  are  just  on  or  a  little  below  the  line 
of  bare  subsistence;  that  the  great  majority  of 
town  workers  have  hopelessly  monotonous  work, 
stuffy  housing,  poor  air,  and  little  leisure.  But 
there  it  is — the  charm  of  the  Hghted-up  unknown, 
of  company,  and  the  streets  at  night !  The  coun- 
tryman goes  to  the  town  in  search  of  adventure. 
Honestly — does  he  really  find  it?  He  thinks  he 
is  going  to  improve  his  prospects  and  his  mind. 
His  prospects  seldom  brighten.  He  sharpens  his 
mind,  only  to  lose  it  and  acquire  instead  that  of 
the  herd. 

To  compete  with  this  lure  of  the  towns,  there 
must  first  be  national  consciousness  of  its  danger; 
then  coherent  national  effort  to  fight  it.  We 
must  destroy  the  shibboleth:  "All  for  wealth!" 
and  re-wTite  it:  "All  for  health!" — the  only 
w^ealth  worth  having.  Wealth  is  not  an  end, 
surely.  Then,  to  what  is  it  the  means,  if  not  to 
health?  Once  we  admit  that  in  spite  of  our 
wealth  our  national  health  is  going  dowTihill 
through  town-blight,  we  assert  the  failure  of  our 
countr}''s  ideals  and  life.  And  if,  having  got  into 
a  vicious  state  of  congested  town  existence,  we 
refuse  to  make  an  effort  to  get  out  again,  because 
it  is  necessary  to  "hold  our  own  commercially," 
and  feed  "the  people"  cheaply,  we  are  in  effect 
saying:  "We  certainly  are  going  to  heU,  but  look 

188 


THE  LAND,  1917 

— ^how  successfully!"  I  suggest  rather  that  we 
try  to  pull  ourselves  up  again  out  of  the  pit  of 
destruction,  even  if  to  do  so  involves  us  in  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  monetary  loss  and  inconvenience. 
Yielding  to  no  one  in  desire  that  "the  people" 
should  be  well,  nay  better,  fed,  I  decline  utterly 
to  accept  the  doctrine  that  there  is  no  way  of 
doing  this  compatible  with  an  increased  country 
population  and  the  growth  of  our  own  food.  In 
national  matters,  where  there  is  a  general  and  not 
a  mere  Party  will,  there  is  a  way,  and  the  way  is 
not  to  be  recoiled  from  because  the  first  years  of 
the  change  may  necessitate  Governmental  regu- 
lation. Many  people  hold  that  our  salvation 
will  come  through  education.  Education  on  right 
lines  underlies  everything,  of  course;  but  imless 
education  includes  the  growth  of  our  own  food 
and  return  to  the  land  in  substantial  measure, 
education  cannot  save  us. 

It  may  be  natural  to  want  to  go  to  hell;  it  is  cer- 
tainly easy;  we  have  gone  so  far  in  that  direction 
that  we  cannot  hope  to  be  haloed  in  our  time.  For 
good  or  evil,  the  great  towns  are  here,  and  we  can 
but  mitigate.  The  indicated  policy  of  mitigation 
is  fivefold: — 

(1)  Such  solid  economic  basis  to  the  growth  of 
our  food  as  will  give  us  again  national  security, 
more  arable  land  than  we  have  ever  had,  and  on 

189 


THE  LAND,   1917 

it  a  full  complement  of  well-paid  workers,  ^dth 
better  cottages,  and  a  livened  village  life. 

(2)  A  vast  number  of  small  holdings,  State* 
created,  with  co-operative  working. 

(3)  A  wide  belt-system  of  garden  allotments 
round  every  town,  industrial  or  not. 

(4)  Drastic  improvements  in  housing,  feeding, 
and  sanitation  in  the  towns  themselves. 

(5)  Education  that  shall  raise  not  only  the 
standard  of  knowledge  but  the  standard  of  taste 
in  town  and  countr}^ 

All  these  ideals  are  already  well  in  the  public 
eye — on  paper.  But  they  are  incoherently  viewed 
and  urged;  they  do  not  as  yet  form  a  national 
creed.  Until  welded  and  supported  by  all  par- 
ties in  the  State,  they  will  not  have  driving  power 
enough  to  counteract  the  terrific  momentum  with 
which  towns  are  drawing  us  down  into  the  pit. 
One  section  pins  its  faith  to  town  improvement; 
another  to  the  development  of  small  holdings;  a 
third  to  cottage  building;  a  fourth  to  education; 
a  fifth  to  support  of  the  price  of  wheat;  a  sixth  to 
the  destruction  of  landlords.  Comprehensive 
vision  of  the  danger  is  still  lacking,  and  compre- 
hensive grasp  of  the  means  to  fight  against  it. 

We  are  by  a  long  way  the  most  town-ridden 
country  in  the  world;  our  towns  by  a  long  way 
the  smokiest  and  worst  built,  with  the  most  in- 

190 


THE  LAND,   1917 

bred  town  populations.  We  have  practically 
come  to  an  end  of  our  country-stock  reserv^es. 
Unless  we  are  prepared  to  say:  "This  is  a  desir- 
able state  of  things;  let  the  inbreeding  of  town 
stocks  go  on — we  shall  evolve  in  time  a  new  type 
immune  to  town  life;  a  little  ratty  fellow  all  nerves 
and  assurance,  much  better  than  any  country 
clod !" — which,  by  the  way,  is  exactly  what  some 
of  us  do  say !  Unless  we  mean  as  a  nation  to 
adopt  this  view  and  rattle  on,  light-heartedly, 
careless  of  menace  from  without  and  within,  as- 
suring ourselves  that  health  and  beauty,  freedom 
and  independence,  as  hitherto  understood,  have 
always  been  misnomers,  and  that  nothing  what- 
ever matters  so  long  as  we  are  rich — unless  all 
this,  we  must  give  check  to  the  present  state  of 
things,  restore  a  decent  balance  between  town 
and  country  stock,  grow  our  own  food,  and  es- 
tablish a  permanent  tendency  away  from  towns. 
All  this  fearfully  unorthodox  and  provocative 
of  sneers,  and — goodness  knows — I  do  not  enjoy 
saying  it.  But  needs  must  when  the  devil  drives. 
It  may  be  foolish  to  rave  against  the  past  and 
those  factors  and  conditions  which  have  put  us 
so  utterly  in  bond  to  towns — especially  since  this 
past  and  these  towns  have  brought  us  such  great 
wealth  and  so  dominating  a  position  in  the  world. 
It   cannot   be   foolish,   now   that  we  have  the 

191 


THE  LAND,   1917 

wealth  and  the  position,  to  resolve  with  all  our 
might  to  free  ourselves  from  bondage,  to  be  mas- 
ters, not  servants,  of  our  fate,  to  get  back  to  firm 
ground,  and  make  Health  and  Safety  what  they 
ever  should  be — the  true  keystones  of  our  poHc3^ 


in 

In  the  midst  of  a  war  like  this  the  first  efforts  of 
any  Government  have  to  be  directed  to  immediate 
ends.  But  under  the  pressure  of  the  war  the  Gov- 
ernment has  a  unique  chance  to  initiate  the  com- 
prehensive, far-reaching  policy  which  alone  can 
save  us.  Foundations  to  safety  will  only  be  laid 
if  our  representatives  can  be  induced  now  to  see 
this  question  of  the  land  as  the  question  of  the 
future,  no  matter  what  happens  in  the  war;  to 
see  that,  whatever  success  we  attain,  we  cannot 
remove  the  two  real  dangers  of  the  future,  sud- 
den strangulation  through  swift  attack  by  air  and 
imder  sea — unless  we  grow  our  own  food ;  and  slow 
strangulation  by  town-life — unless  we  restore  the 
land.  Our  imaginations  are  stirred,  the  driving 
force  is  here,  swift  action  possible,  and  certain 
extraordinary  opportunities  are  open  which  pres- 
ently must  close  again. 

On  demobilisation  we  have  the  chance  of  our 
lives  to  put  men  on  the  land.    Because  this  is 

192 


I 


THE  LAND,   1917 

still  a  Party  question,  to  be  sagaciously  debated 
up  hill  and  down  dale  three  or  four  years  hence, 
we  shall  very  likely  grasp  the  mere  shadow  and 
miss  the  substance  of  that  opportunity.  If  the 
Government  had  a  mandate  "Full  steam  ahead" 
we  could  add  at  the  end  of  the  war  perhaps  a 
million  men  (potentially  four  million  people)  to 
our  food-growing  country  population;  as  it  is,  we 
may  add  thereto  a  few  thousands,  lose  half  a 
million  to  the  Colonies,  and  discourage  the  rest — 
patting  our  own  backs  the  while.  To  put  men  on 
the  land  we  must  have  the  land  ready  in  terms  of 
earth,  not  of  paper;  and  have  it  in  the  right  places, 
within  easy  reach  of  town  or  village.  Things  can 
be  done  just  now.  We  know,  for  instance,  that 
in  a  few  months  half  a  million  allotment-gardens 
have  been  created  in  urban  areas  and  more  prog- 
ress made  with  small  holdings  than  in  previous 
years.  I  repeat,  we  have  a  chance  which  will  not 
recur  to  scotch  the  food  danger^  and  to  restore  a 
healthier  balance  between  town  and  country 
stocks.  Shall  we  be  penny-wise  and  lose  this 
chance  for  the  luxury  of  "free  and  full  discussion 
of  a  controversial  matter  at  a  time  when  men's 
minds  are  not  full  of  the  country's  danger"? 
Tliis  is  the  countrj^'s  danger — there  is  no  other. 
And  this  is  the  moment  for  full  and  free  discus- 
sion of  it,  for  full  and  free  action  too.   Who  doubts 

193 


THE  LAND,   1917 

that  a  Government  which  brought  this  question 
of  the  land  in  its  widest  aspects  to  the  touch- 
stone of  full  debate  at  once,  would  get  its  man- 
date, would  get  the  power  it  wanted — not  to 
gerrymander,  but  to  build? 

Consider  the  Corn  Production  Bill.  I  will 
quote  Mr.  Prothero:  "National  security  is  not  an 
impracticable  dream.  It  is  within  our  reach, 
within  the  course  of  a  few  years,  and  it  involves 
no  great  dislocation  of  other  industries."  (Note 
that.)  "For  all  practical  purposes,  if  we  could 
grow  at  home  here  82  per  cent,  of  all  the  food  that 
we  require  for  five  years,  we  should  be  safe,  and 
that  amount  of  independence  of  sea-borne  sup- 
plies we  can  secure,  and  secure  within  a  few 
years.  .  .  .  We  could  obtain  that  result  if  we 
could  add  8,000,000  acres  of  arable  land  to  our 
existing  area — that  is  to  say,  if  we  increased  it 
from  19,000,000  acres  to  27,000,000  acres.  If  you 
once  got  that  extension  of  your  arable  area,  the 
nation  would  be  safe  from  the  nightmare  of  a 
submarine  menace,  and  the  number  of  additional 
men  who  would  be  required  on  the  land  would  be 
something  about  a  quarter  of  a  million."  (Note 
that.)  "The  present  Bill  is  much  less  ambi- 
tious." It  is.  And  it  is  introduced  by  one  who 
knows  and  dreads,  as  much  as  any  of  us,  the 
dangerous  and  unballasted  condition  into  which 

194 


THE  LAND,   1917 

we  have  drifted;  introduced  with,  as  it  were, 
apology,  as  if  he  feared  that,  unambitious  though 
it  be,  it  will  startle  the  nerves  of  Parliament.  On 
a  question  so  vast  and  vital  you  are  bound  to 
startle  by  any  little  measure.  Nothing  but  an 
heroic  measure  would  arouse  debate  on  a  scale 
adequate  to  reach  and  stir  the  depths  of  our  na- 
tional condition,  and  wake  us  all,  politicians  and 
public,  to  appreciate  the  fact  that  our  whole 
future  is  in  this  matter,  and  that  it  must  be 
tackled. 

If  we  are  not  capable  now  of  grasping  the  vital 
nature  of  this  issue  we  assuredly  never  shall  be. 
Only  five  generations  have  brought  us  to  the 
parasitic,  town-ridden  condition  we  are  in.  The 
rate  of  progress  in  deterioration  will  increase 
rapidly  with  each  coming  generation.  We  have, 
as  it  were,  turned  seven-ninths  of  our  population 
out  into  poor  paddocks,  to  breed  promiscuously 
among  themselves.  We  have  the  chance  to  make 
our  English  and  Welsh  figures  read :  Twenty-four 
millions  of  town-dwellers  to  twelve  of  country^ 
instead  of,  as  now,  twenty-eight  millions  to  eight. 
Consider  what  that  would  mean  to  the  breeding 
of  the  next  generation.  In  such  extra  millions  of 
country  stock  our  national  hope  hes.  What  we 
should  never  dream  of  permitting  with  our  do- 
mestic animals,  we  are  not  only  permitting  but 

195 


THE  LAND,   1917 

encouraging  among  ourselves;  we  are  doing  all  we 
can  to  perpetuate  and  increase  poor  stock;  stock 
without  either  quality  or  bone,  run-down,  and 
ill-shaped.  And,  just  as  the  progress  in  the 
"stock"  danger  is  accelerated  with  each  genera- 
tion, so  does  the  danger  from  outside  increase  with 
every  year  which  sees  flying  and  submarining 
improve,  and  our  food  capacity  standing  still. 

The  great  argument  against  a  united  effort  to 
regain  our  ballast  is:  We  must  not  take  away  too 
many  from  our  vital  industries.  Why,  even  the 
Minister  of  Agriculture,  who  really  knows  and 
dreads  the  danger,  almost  apologises  for  taking 
two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  from  those  vital 
industries,  to  carry  out,  not  his  immediate,  but 
his  ideal,  programme.  Vital  industries !  Ah ! 
vital  to  Britain's  destruction  within  the  next  few 
generations  unless  we  mend  our  ways!  The 
great  impediment  is  the  force  of  things  as  they 
are,  the  huge  vested  interests,  the  iron  network 
of  vast  enterprises  frightened  of  losing  profit. 
If  we  pass  this  moment,  when  men  of  every  class 
and  occupation,  even  those  who  most  thrive  on 
our  town-ridden  state,  are  a  little  frightened;  if 
we  let  slip  this  chance  for  a  real  reversal — can  we 
hope  that  anything  considerable  will  be  done, 
with  the  dice  loaded  as  they  are,  the  scales 
weighted  so  hopelessly  in  favour  of  the  towns? 

196 


I 


THE  LAND,   1917 

Representatives  of  seven-ninths  will  always  see 
that  representatives  of  two-ninths  do  not  outvote 
them.  This  is  a  crude  way  of  putting  it,  but  it 
serves;  because,  after  all,  an  elector  is  only  a  lit- 
tle bundle  of  the  immediate  needs  of  his  locality 
and  mode  of  life,  outside  of  which  he  cannot  see, 
and  which  he  does  not  want  prejudiced.  He  is 
not  a  fool,  like  me,  looking  into  the  future.  And 
his  representatives  have  got  to  serve  him.  The 
only  chance,  in  a  question  so  huge,  vital,  and  long 
as  this,  is  that  greatly  distrusted  agent — Panic 
Legislation.  When  panic  makes  men,  for  a  brief 
space,  open  their  eyes  and  see  truth,  then  it  is 
valuable.  Before  our  eyes  close  again  and  see 
nothing  but  the  darkness  of  the  daily  struggle 
for  existence,  let  us  take  advantage,  and  lay 
foundations  which  will  be  difficult,  at  least,  to 
overturn. 

What  has  been  done  so  far,  and  what  more  can 
be  done  ?  A  bounty  on  com  has  been  introduced. 
I  suppose  nobody,  certainly  not  its  promoter,  is 
enamoured  of  this.  But  it  does  not  seem  to  have 
occurred  to  every'  one  that  you  cannot  eat  nuts 
without  breaking  their  shells,  or  get  out  of  evil 
courses  without  a  transition  period  of  extreme 
annoyance  to  yourself.  "Bounty"  is,  in  many 
quarters,  looked  on  as  a  piece  of  petting  to  an 
interest  already  pampered.    Well — while  we  look 

197 


THE  LAND,   1917 

on  the  land  as  an  "interest"  in  competition  with 
other  "interests"  and  not  as  the  vital  interest  of 
the  country,  underlying  every  other,  so  long  shall 
we  continue  to  be  "in  the  soup."  The  land  needs 
fostering,  and  again  fostering,  because  the  whole 
vicious  tendency  of  the  country 's  life  has  brought 
farming  to  its  present  pass  and  farmers  to  their 
attitude  of  mistrust.  Doctrinaire  objections  are 
now  ridiculous.  An  economic  basis  must  be  re- 
established, or  we  may  as  well  ciy  "Kamerad" 
at  once  and  hold  up  our  hands  to  Fate.  The 
greater  the  arable  acreage  in  this  countr}',  the 
less  will  be  the  necessity  for  a  bounty  on  corn. 
Unlike  most  stimulants,  it  is  one  which  gradually 
stimulates  away  the  need  for  it.  With  every 
year  and  every  million  acres  broken  up,  not  only 
will  the  need  for  bounty  diminish,  but  the  present 
mistrustful  breed  of  farmer  will  be  a  step  nearer 
to  extinction.  Shrewd,  naturally  conservative, 
and  somewhat  intolerant  of  anything  so  dreamy 
as  a  national  point  of  view,  they  will  not  live  for 
ever.  The  up-growing  farmer  will  not  be  like 
them,  and  about  the  time  the  need  for  bounty 
is  vanishing  the  new  farmer  will  be  in  posses- 
sion. But  in  the  meantime  land  must  be  broken 
up  until  8,000,000  acres  at  least  are  conquered; 
and  bounty  is  the  only  lever.  It  will  not  be 
lever  enough  without  constant  urging.     In  Mr. 

198 


THE  LAND,   1917 

Prothero's  history'  of  English  farming  occur  these 
words:  "A  Norfolk  farmer  migrated  to  Devon- 
shire in  1780,  where  he  drilled  and  hoed  his  roots; 
though  his  crops  were  far  superior  to  those  of 
other  farmers  in  the  district,  yet  at  the  close  of 
the  century  no  neighbour  had  followed  his  ex- 
ample." 

But  even  the  break-up  of  8,000,000  acres, 
though  it  may  make  us  safe  for  food,  will  only 
increase  our  country  population  by  250,000  la- 
bourers and  their  famihes  (a  million  souls) — a 
mere  beginning  towards  the  satisfaction  of  our 
need.  We  want  in  operation,  before  demobilisa- 
tion begins,  a  great  national  plan  for  the  creation 
of  good  small  holdings  run  on  co-operative  lines. 
And  to  this  end,  why  should  not  the  suggestion  of 
tithe  redemption,  thrown  out  by  Mr.  Prothero, 
on  pages  399  and  400  of  "English  Farming:  Past 
and  Present,"  be  adopted?  The  annual  value  of 
tithes  is  about  £5,000,000.  Their  extinction 
should  provide  the  Government  with  about  2,- 
500,000  acres,  enough  at  one  stroke  to  put  three 
or  four  hundred  thousand  soldiers  on  the  land. 
The  tithe-holders  would  get  their  money,  land- 
lords would  not  be  prejudiced;  the  Government, 
by  virtue  of  judicious  choice  and  discretionary 
compulsion,  would  obtain  the  sort  of  land  it 
wanted,  and  the  land  would  be  for  ever  free  of  a 

199 


THE  LAND,   1917 

teasing  and  vexatious  charge.  The  cost  to  the 
Government  would  be  £100,000,000  (perhaps 
more)  on  the  best  security  it  could  have.  "Pres- 
ent conditions,"  I  quote  from  the  book,  "are 
favourable  to  such  a  transaction.  The  price  of 
land  enables  owners  to  extinguish  the  rent  charge 
by  the  surrender  of  a  reasonable  acreage,  and  the 
low  price  of  Consols  enables  investors  to  obtain 
a  larger  interest  for  their  money."  For  those  not 
familiar  with  this  notion,  the  process,  in  brief,  is 
this:  The  Government  pays  the  tithe-holder  the 
capitalised  value  of  his  tithe,  and  takes  over  from 
the  landlord  as  much  land  as  produces  in  net  an- 
nual rent  the  amount  of  the  tithe-rent  charge, 
leaving  the  rest  of  his  land  tithe-free  for  ever. 
There  are  doubtless  difficulties  and  objections, 
but  so  there  must  be  to  any  comprehensive  plan 
for  obtaining  an  amount  of  land  at  all  adequate. 
Time  is  of  desperate  importance  in  this  matter. 
It  is  already  dangerously  late,  but  if  the  Gov- 
ernment would  turn-to  now  with  a  will,  the  situ- 
ation could  still  be  saved,  and  this  unique  chance 
for  re-stocking  our  countryside  would  not  be 
thrown  away. 

I  alluded  to  the  formation  within  a  few  months 
of  half  a  million  garden-allotments — ^plots  of 
ground  averaging  about  ten  poles  each,  taken 
under  the  Defence  of  the  Realm  Act  from  build- 

200 


THE  LAND,   1917 

ing  and  other  land  in  urban  areas,  and  given  to 
cultivators,  under  a  guarantee,  for  the  growth  of 
vegetables.  This  most  valuable  effort,  for  which 
the  Board  of  Agriculture  deser^^es  the  thanks  of 
all,  is  surely  capable  of  ver^"  great  extension. 
Every  town,  no  matter  how  quickly  it  may  be 
developing,  is  always  surrounded  by  a  belt  of 
dubious  land — not  quite  town  and  not  quite 
country.  When  town  development  mops  up  plots 
in  cultivation,  a  hole  can  be  let  out  in  an  elastic 
belt  which  is  capable  of  almost  indefinite  expan- 
sion. But  this  most  useful  and  health-giving  work 
has  only  been  possible  under  powers  which  will 
cease  when  the  immediate  danger  to  the  State 
has  passed.  If  a'  movement,  which  greatly  aug- 
ments our  home-grown  food  supply  and  can  give 
quiet,  healthy,  open-air,  interesting  work  for 
several  hours  a  week  to  perhaps  a  million  out  of 
our  congested  town  populations — if  such  a  move- 
ment be  allowed  to  collapse  at  the  coming  of 
peace,  it  will  be  nothing  less  than  criminal.  I 
plead  here  that  the  real  danger  to  the  State  will 
not  pass  but  rather  begin,  with  the  signing  of 
peace,  that  the  powers  to  acquire  and  grant  these 
garden-allotments  should  be  continued,  and  eveiy 
effort  made  to  foster  and  extend  the  movement. 
Considering  that,  whatever  we  do  to  re-colonise 
our  land,  we  must  still  have  in  this  countrj^  a 

201 


THE  LAND,  1917 

dangerously  huge  town  population,  this  kitchen- 
garden  movement  can  be  of  incalculable  value  in 
combating  town-blight,  in  securing  just  that  air  to 
lungs  and  mind,  and  just  that  spice  of  earth  real- 
ity which  all  town-dwellers  need  so  much. 

Extension  of  arable  land  by  at  least  8,000,000 
acres;  creation  of  hundreds  of  thousands  of  small 
holdings  by  tithe  redemption,  or  another  scheme 
still  in  the  blue;  increase  and  perpetuation  of  gar- 
den-allotments— besides  all  these  we  want,  of 
course,  agricultural  schools  and  faciHties  for  train- 
ing; co-operatively  organised  finance,  transport,  and 
marketing  of  produce;  for  without  schooling,  and 
co-operation,  no  system  of  small  holding  on  a 
large  scale  can  possibly  succeed.  We  now  have 
the  labourer's  minimum  wage,  which,  I  think, 
will  want  increasing;  but  we  want  good  rural 
housing  on  an  economically  sound  basis,  an  en- 
livened village  life,  and  all  that  can  be  done  to 
give  the  worker  on  the  land  a  feeling  that  he  can 
rise,  the  sense  that  he  is  not  a  mere  herd,  at  the 
beck  and  call  of  what  has  been  dubbed  the  "tyr- 
anny of  the  countryside."  The  land  gives  work 
which  is  varied,  alive,  and  interesting  beyond  all 
town  industries,  save  those,  perhaps,  of  art  and 
the  highly-skilled  crafts  and  professions.  If  we 
can  once  get  land-life  back  on  to  a  wide  and  solid 
basis,  it  should  hold  its  own. 

Dare  any  say  that  this  whole  vast  question  of 
202 


THE  LAND,   1917 

the  land,  with  its  throbbing  importance,  yea — 
seeing  that  demobiUsations  do  not  come  every 
year — its  desperately  immediate  importance,  is 
not  fit  matter  for  instant  debate  and  action ;  dare 
any  say  that  we  ought  to  relegate  it  to  that  limbo 
"After  the  war"?  In  grim  reality  it  takes  pre- 
cedence of  every  other  question.  It  is  infinitely 
more  vital  to  our  safety  and  our  health  than  con- 
sideration of  our  future  commercial  arrange- 
ments. In  our  present  Parliament — practically, 
if  not  sentimentally  speaking — all  shades  of  opin- 
ion are  as  well  represented  as  they  are  likely  to 
be  in  future  Parliaments — even  the  interests  of 
our  women  and  our  soldiers;  to  put  off  the  good 
day  when  this  question  is  threshed  out,  is  to  crane 
at  an  imagined  hedge. 

Let  us  know  now  at  what  we  are  aiming,  let  us 
admit  and  record  in  the  black  and  white  of  legis- 
lation that  we  intend  to  trim  our  course  once  more 
for  the  port  of  health  and  safety.  If  this  Britain 
of  ours  is  going  to  pin  her  whole  future  to  a  blind 
pursuit  of  wealth,  without  considering  whether 
that  wealth  is  making  us  all  healthier  and  happier, 
many  of  us,  like  Sancho,  would  rather  retire  at 
once,  and  be  made  "governors  of  islands."  For 
who  can  want  part  or  lot  on  a  ship  which  goes 
yawing  with  every  sail  set  into  the  dark,  without 
rudder,  compass,  or  lighted  star  ? 

I,  for  one,  want  a  Britain  who  refuses  to  take 
203 


THE  LAND,   1917 

the  mere  immediate  line  of  least  resistance,  who 
knows  and  sets  her  course,  and  that  a  worthy  one. 
So  do  we  all,  I  believe,  at  heart — only,  the  current 
is  so  mighty  and  strong,  and  we  are  so  used  to  it ! 

By  the  parasitic  and  town-ridden  condition  we 
are  in  now,  and  in  which  without  great  and  im- 
mediate effort  we  are  likely  to  remain,  we  de- 
grade our  patriotism.  That  we  should  have  to 
tremble  lest  we  be  starved  is  a  miserable,  a 
humiliating  thought.  To  have  had  so  little  pride 
and  independence  of  spirit  as  to  have  come  to 
this,  to  have  been  such  gobblers  at  wealth — who 
dare  defend  it?  We  have  made  our  bed;  let  us, 
now,  refuse  to  he  thereon.  Better  the  floor  than 
this  dingy  feather  couch  of  suffocation. 

Our  country  is  dear  to  us,  and  many  are  dying 
for  her.  There  can  be  no  consecration  of  their 
memory  so  deep  or  so  true  as  this  regeneration  of 
The  Land. 

1917 


204 


THE  LAND,  1918 
I 

INTRODUCTORY 

Can  one  assume  that  the  pinch  of  this  war  is 
really  bringing  home  to  us  the  vital  need  of  grow- 
ing our  own  food  henceforth  ?  I  do  not  think  so. 
Is  there  any  serious  shame  felt  at  our  parasitic 
condition?  None.  Are  we  in  earnest  about  the 
resettlement  of  the  land?    Not  yet. 

All  our  history  shows  us  to  be  a  practical  people 
with  short  views.  '^Tiens!  Une  montagne  V^ 
Never  was  a  better  siunming  up  of  British  char- 
acter than  those  words  of  the  French  cartoonist 
during  the  Boer  War,  beneath  his  picture  of  a 
certain  British  General  of  those  days,  riding  at  a 
hand  gallop  till  his  head  was  butting  a  cliff. 
Without  seeing  a  hand's  breadth  before  our  noses 
we  have  built  our  Empire,  our  towns,  our  law. 
We  are  born  empiricists,  and  must  have  our  faces 
ground  by  hard  facts,  before  we  attempt  to  wrig- 
gle past  them.  We  have  thriven  so  far,  but  the 
ruin  of  England  is  likely  to  be  the  work  of  prac- 
tical men  who  burn  the  house  down  to  roast  the 
pig,  because  they  cannot  see  beyond  the  next 
meal.     Visions  are  airy;  but  I  propose  to  see 

205 


THE  LAND,   1918 

visions  for  a  moment,  and  Britain  as  she  might 
be  in  1948. 

I  see  our  towns,  not  indeed  diminished  from 
their  present  size,  but  no  larger;  much  cleaner, 
and  surrounded  by  wide  belts  of  garden  allot- 
ments, wherein  town  workers  spend  many  of  their 
leisure  hours.  I  see  in  Great  Britain  fifty  millions 
instead  of  forty-one;  but  the  town  population 
only  thirty-two  millions  as  now,  and  the  rural 
population  eighteen  millions  instead  of  the  present 
nine.  I  see  the  land  farmed  in  three  ways:  very 
large  farms  growing  corn  and  milk,  meat  and 
wool,  or  sugar  beet;  small  farms  co-operatively  run 
growing  everything;  and  large  groups  of  co-opera- 
tive small  holdings,  growing  vegetables,  fruit,  pigs, 
poultry,  and  dairy  produce  to  some  extent.  There 
are  no  game  laws  to  speak  of,  and  certainly  no 
large  areas  of  ground  cut  to  waste  for  private 
whims.  I  see  very  decent  cottages  everyw^here, 
with  large  plots  of  ground  at  economic  rents,  and 
decently  waged  people  paying  them;  no  tithes, 
but  a  band  of  extinguished  tithe-holders,  happy 
with  their  compensation.  The  main  waterways 
of  the  country  seem  joined  by  wide  canals,  and 
along  these  canals  factories  are  spread  out  on 
the  garden  city  plan,  with  allotments  for  the 
factory  workers.  Along  better  roads  run  long 
chains  of  small  holdings,  so  that  the  co-operated 

206 


THE  LAND,   1918 

holders  have  no  difficulty  in  marketing  their  prod- 
uce. I  see  motor  transport;  tractor  ploughs;  im- 
proved farm  machinery;  forestry  properly  looked 
after,  and  foreshores  reclaimed;  each  village  own- 
ing its  recreation  hall,  with  stage  and  cinema  at- 
tached; and  public-houses  run  only  on  the  prin- 
ciple of  no  commission  on  the  drink  sold;  eveiy 
school  teaching  the  truth  that  happiness  and 
health,  not  mere  money  and  learning,  are  the 
prizes  of  life  and  the  objects  of  education,  and 
for  ever  impressing  on  the  scholars  that  life  in  the 
open  air  and  pleasure  in  their  work  are  the  two 
chief  secrets  of  health  and  happiness.  In  every 
district  a  model  farm  radiates  scientific  knowl- 
ledge  of  the  art  of  husbandry-,  bringing  instruction 
to  each  individual  farmer,  and  leaving  him  no 
excuse  for  ignorance.  The  land  produces  what  it 
ought;  not,  as  now,  feeding  with  each  hundred 
acres  only  fifty  persons,  while  a  German  hundred 
acres,  not  nearly  so  favoured  by  Nature,  feeds 
seventy-five.  Every  little  girl  has  been  taught 
to  cook.  Farmers  are  no  longer  fearful  of  bank- 
ruptcy, as  in  the  years  from  1875  to  1897,  but 
hold  their  own  with  all  comers,  proud  of  their 
industry,  the  spine  and  marrow  of  a  country  which 
respects  itself  once  more.  There  seems  no  longer 
jealousy  or  division  between  town  and  country; 
and  statesmen  by  tacit  consent  leave  the  land 

207 


THE  LAND,   1918 

free  from  Party  politics.  I  see  taller  and  stronger 
men  and  women,  rosier  and  happier  children;  a 
race  no  longer  narrow,  squashed,  and  dispropor- 
tionate; no  longer  smoke-dried  and  nerve-racked, 
with  the  driven,  don't-care  look  of  a  town-ridden 
land.  And  surely  the  words  "Old  England"  are 
spoken  by  all  voices  with  a  new  affection,  as  of  a 
land  no  longer  sucking  its  sustenance  from  other 
lands,  but  sound  and  sweet,  the  worthy  heart 
once  more  of  a  great  commonwealth  of  countries. 

All  this  I  seem  to  see,  if  certain  things  are  done 
now  and  persevered  in  hereafter.  But  let  none 
think  that  we  can  restore  self-respect  and  the 
land-spirit  to  this  country  under  the  mere  mo- 
mentary pressure  of  our  present-day  need.  Such 
a  transformation  cannot  come  unless  we  are 
genuinely  ashamed  that  Britain  should  be  a 
sponge;  unless  we  truly  wish  to  make  her  again 
sound  metal,  ringing  true,  instead  of  a  splay- 
footed creature,  dependent  for  vital  nourishment 
on  oversea  supplies — a  cockshy  for  every  foe. 

We  are  practically  secured  by  Nature,  yet  have 
thrown  security  to  the  winds  because  we  cannot 
feed  ourselves!  We  have  as  good  a  climate  and 
soil  as  any  in  the  world,  not  indeed  for  pleasure, 
but  for  health  and  food,  and  yet,  I  am  sure,  we 
are  rotting  physically  faster  than  any  other  peo- 
ple! 

208 


THE  LAND,   1918 

Let  the  nation  put  that  reflection  in  its  pipe 
and  smoke  it  day  by  day;  for  only  so  shall  we 
emerge  from  a  bad  dream  and  seize  again  on  our 
birthright. 

Let  us  dream  a  little  of  what  we  might  become. 
Let  us  not  crawl  on  with  our  stomachs  to  the 
ground,  and  not  an  ounce  of  vision  in  our  heads 
for  fear  l^t  we  be  called  visionaries.  And  let  us 
rid  our  minds  of  one  or  two  noxious  superstitions. 
It  is  not  true  that  country  life  need  mean  dull 
and  cloddish  life;  it  has  in  the  past,  because  agri- 
culture has  been  neglected  for  the  false  glamour 
of  the  towns,  and  village  life  left  to  seed  down. 
There  is  no  real  reason  why  the  villager  should 
not  have  all  he  needs  of  social  life  and  sane  amuse- 
ment; village  life  only  wants  organising.  It  is 
not  true  that  country  folk  must  be  worse  fed  and 
worse  plenished  than  town  folk.  This  has  only 
been  so  sometimes  because  a  starved  industry' 
which  was  losing  hope  has  paid  starvation  wages. 
It  is  not  true  that  our  soil  and  climate  are  of  in- 
different value  for  the  growth  of  wheat.  The 
contrary  is  the  case.  "The  fact  which  has  been 
lost  sight  of  in  the  past  twenty  years  must  be  in- 
sisted on  nowadays,  that  England  is  naturally  one 
of  the  best,  if  not  the  very  best  wheat-growing 
country  in  the  world.  Its  climate  and  soil  are  al- 
most ideal  for  the  production  of  the  heaviest 

209 


THE  LAND,   1918 

crops":  Professor  R.  H.  Biffen.  "The  view  of 
leading  Geraian  agriculturists  is  that  their  soils 
and  climate  are  distinctly  inferior  to  those  of 
Britain":  Mr.  T.  H.  Middleton,  Assistant  Secre- 
tary to  the  Board  of  Agriculture. 

We  have  many  mouths  in  this  country,  but  no 
real  excuse  for  not  growing  the  wherewithal  to 
feed  them. 

To  break  the  chains  of  our  lethargy  and  super- 
stitions, let  us  keep  before  us  a  thought  and  a 
vision — the  thought  that,  since  the  air  is  mastered 
and  there  are  pathways  under  the  sea,  we,  the 
proudest  people  in  the  world,  will  exist  hence- 
forth by  mere  merciful  accident,  until  we  grow  our 
own  food;  and  the  vision  of  ourselves  as  a  finer 
race  in  bod)^  and  mind  than  we  have  ever  yet 
been.  And  then  let  us  be  practical  by  all  means; 
for  in  the  practical  measures  of  the  present, 
spurred  on  by  that  thought,  inspired  by  that 
vision,  alone  lies  the  hope  and  safety  of  the  future. 

What  are  those  measures  ? 

II 

WHEAT 

The  measure  which  underlies  all  else  is  the 
ploughing  up  of  permanent  grass — the  reconver- 
sion of  land  which  was  once  arable,  the  addition  to 

210 


THE  LAND,   1918 

arable  of  land  which  has  never  been  arable,  so  as 
to  secure  the  only  possible  basis  of  success — the 
wheat  basis. 

I  have  before  me  a  Report  on  the  Breaking  up 
of  Grass  Land  in  fifty-five  counties  for  the  winter 
of  1916-1917,  which  shows  four  successes  for  ev- 
ery failure.  The  Report  says:  "It  has  been  ar- 
gued during  the  past  few  months  that  it  is  hope- 
less to  attempt  to  plough  out  old  grass  land  in 
the  expectation  of  adding  to  the  nation's  food. 
The  experience  of  1917  does  not  support  this  con- 
tention. It  shows  not  only  that  the  successes  far 
outnumber  the  failures,  but  that  the  latter  are  to 
some  extent  preventable." 

The  Government's  1918  tillage  programme  for 
England  and  Wales  was  to  increase  (as  compared 
with  1916),  (1)  the  area  under  corn  by  2,600,000 
acres,  (2)  the  area  under  potatoes  and  mangolds 
by  400,000  acres,  (3)  the  arable  land  by  2,000,000 
acres.  I  have  it  on  the  best  authority  that  the 
Government  hopes  to  better  this  in  the  forth- 
coming harvest.  That  shows  what  our  farmers 
can  do  with  their  backs  to  the  wall.  It  sometimes 
happens  in  this  world  that  we  act  virtuously 
without  in  any  way  believing  that  virtue  is  its 
own  reward.  Most  of  our  farmers  are  hoeing 
their  rows  in  this  crisis  in  the  full  belief  that  they 
are  serving  the  country  to  the  hurt  of  their  own 

211 


THE  LAND,   1918 

interests;  they  will  not,  I  imagine,  realise  that 
they  are  laying  the  foundations  of  a  future  pros- 
perity beyond  their  happiest  dreams  until  the 
crisis  is  long  past.  All  the  more  credit  to  them 
for  a  great  effort.  They  by  no  means  grasp  at 
present  the  fact  that  with  every  acre  they  add  to 
arable,  with  each  additional  acre  of  wheat,  they 
increase  their  own  importance  and  stability,  and 
set  the  snowball  of  permanent  prosperity  in  their 
industry  rolling  anew.  Pasture  was  a  pohcy 
adopted  by  men  who  felt  defeat  in  their  bones, 
saw  bankruptcy  round  every  corner.  Those  who 
best  know  seem  agreed  that  after  the  war  the 
price  of  wheat  will  not  come  down  with  a  run. 
The  world  shortage  of  food  and  shipping  will  be 
very  great,  and  the  "new  world's"  surplus  will 
be  small.  Let  our  farmers  take  their  courage  in 
their  hands,  play  a  bold  game,  and  back  their 
own  horse  for  the  next  four  or  five  seasons,  and 
they  will,  ij  supported  by  the  country,  be  in  a 
position  once  more  to  defy  competition.  Let 
them  have  faith  and  go  for  the  gloves  and  they 
wiU  end  by  living  without  fear  of  the  new  worlds. 
''There  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men."  This  is 
the  British  farmer's  tide,  which,  taken  at  the 
flood,  leads  on  to  fortune.  But  only  if  the  British 
fanner  intends  that  Britain  shall  feed  herself; 
only  if  he  farms  the  land  of  Britain  so  that  acre 

212 


THE  LAND,   1918 

by  acre  it  yields  the  maximum  of  food.  A  hun- 
dred acres  under  potatoes  feeds  420  persons;  a 
hundi'ed  acr^  under  wheat  feeds  200  persons;  a 
hundred  acres  of  grass  feeds  fifteen  persons.  It 
requires  no  expert  to  see  that  the  last  is  the  los- 
ing horse;  for  increase  of  arable  means  also  in- 
crease of  winter  food,  and  in  the  long  run  increase, 
not  decrease,  of  live  stock.  In  Denmark  (1912) 
arable  was  to  permanent  grass  as  about  4  to  5;  in 
the  United  Kingdom  it  was  only  as  about  5  to  7. 
Yet  in  Denmark  there  were  five  cattle  to  every 
eight  acres  of  grass,  and  in  the  United  Kingdom 
only  four  cattle  to  every  nine  acres. 

Let  me  quote  Professor  Biffen  on  the  prospects 
of  wheat:  "In  the  United  States  the  amount  ex- 
ported tends  to  fall.  The  results  are  so  marked 
that  we  find  American  agricultural  ex^jerts  seri- 
ously considering  the  possibility  of  the  United 
States  having  to  become  a  wheat  importing  coun- 
try in  order  to  feed  the  rapidly  growing  popula- 
tion." When  she  does,  that  wheat  will  come  from 
Canada;  and  "there  are  several  other  facts  which 
lead  one  to  question  the  statement  so  frequently 
made  that  Canada  will  shortly  be  the  Empire's 
granary-.  ..."  He  thinks  that  the  Argentine 
(which  trebles  her  population  every  forty  years) 
is  an  uncertain  source;  that  Russia,  where  the 
population  also  increases  with  extreme  rapidity, 

213 


THE  LAND,   1918 

is  still  more  uncertain;  that  neither  India  nor 
Australia  are  dependable  fields  of  supply.  "The 
world's  crop  continues  to  increase  slowly,  and 
concurrently  the  number  of  wheat  consumers  in- 
creases. .  .  .  Prices  have  tended  to  rise  of  late 
years,  a  fact  which  may  indicate  that  the  world's 
consumption  is  increasing  faster  than  its  rate  of 
production.  There  are  now  no  vast  areas  of  land 
comparable  with  those  of  North  and  South  Amer- 
ica awaiting  the  pioneer  wheat  growers,  and  con- 
sequently there  is  no  likelihood  of  any  repetition  of 
the  over-production  characteristic  of  the  period  of 
1874-1894.  .  .  . 

"  If  as  there  is  every  reason  to  hope  the  problem 
of  breeding  satisfactory  strong  wheats"  (for  this 
country)  "has  been  solved,  then  their  cultivation 
should  add  about  £l  to  the  value  of  the  produce 
of  every  acre  of  wheat  in  the  country.  .  .  . 

"At  a  rough  estimate  the  careful  use  of  arti- 
ficials might  increase  the  average  yield  of  the  acre 
from  four  quarters  up  to  five.  .  .  . 

"England  is  one  of  the  best,  if  not  the  very 
best  wheat-growing  country  in  the  world." 

That,  shortly,  is  the  wheat  position  for  this 
country  in  the  view  of  our  most  brilliant  prac- 
tical expert.  I  commend  it  to  the  notice  of  those 
who  are  faint-hearted  about  the  future  of  wheat 
in  Britain. 

214 


THE  LAND,   1918 

With  these  prospects  and  possibilities  before 
him,  and  a  fair  price  for  wheat  guaranteed  him,  is 
the  British  fanner  going  to  let  down  the  land  to 
grass  again  when  the  war  is  over  ?  The  fair  price 
for  wheat  will  be  the  point  on  which  his  decision 
will  turn.  When  things  have  settled  down  after 
the  war,  the  fair  price  will  be  that  at  which  the 
average  farmer  can  profitably  grow  wheat,  and 
such  a  price  must  be  maintained — by  bounty,  if 
necessary.  It  never  can  be  too  often  urged  on 
poHticians  and  electorate  that  they,  who  thwart  a 
policy  which  makes  wheat-growing  firm  and 
profitable,  are  knocking  nails  in  the  coffin  of  their 
country.  We  are  no  longer,  and  never  shall  again 
be,  an  island.  The  air  is  henceforth  as  simple  an 
avenue  of  approach  as  Piccadilly  is  to  Leicester 
Square.  If  we  are  ever  attacked  there  will  be  no 
time  to  get  our  second  wind,  unless  we  can  feed 
ourselves.  And  since  we  are  constitutionally 
liable  to  be  caught  napping,  we  shall  infallibly 
be  brought  to  the  German  heel  next  time,  if  we 
are  not  self-supporting.  But  if  we  are,  there  will 
be  no  next  time.  An  attempt  on  us  will  not  be 
worth  the  cost.  Further,  we  are  running  to  seed 
physically  from  too  much  town-life  and  the  fail- 
ure of  country  stocks;  we  shall  never  stem  that 
rot  unless  we  re-establish  agriculture  on  a  large 
scale.    To  do  that,  in  the  view  of  nearly  all  who 

215 


THE  LAND,   1918 

have  thought  this  matter  out,  we  must  found  our 
farming  on  wheat;  grow  four-fifths  instead  of  one- 
fifth  of  our  supply,  and  all  else  will  follow. 

In  England  and  Wales  11,246,106  acres  were 
arable  land  in  1917,  and  15,835,375  permanent 
grass  land.  To  reverse  these  figures,  at  least,  is 
the  condition  of  security,  perhaps  even  of  exist- 
ence in  the  present  and  the  only  guarantee  of  a 
decent  and  safe  future. 


Ill 

HOLDINGS 

One  expert  pins  faith  to  large  farms;  another  to 
small  holdings.  How  agreeable  to  think  that 
both  are  right.  We  cannot  afford  to  neglect  any 
type  of  holding;  all  must  be  developed  and  sup- 
ported, for  all  serve  vital  puiposes.  For  instance, 
the  great  development  of  small  holdings  in  Ger- 
many is  mainly  responsible  for  the  plentiful  sup- 
ply of  labour  on  the  land  there;  "until  measures 
can  be  devised  for  greatly  increasing  the  area 
under  holdings  of  less  than  100  acres  in  Britain 
we  are  not  likely  to  breed  and  maintain  in  the 
country  a  sufficient  number  of  that  class  of 
worker  which  will  be  required  if  we  are  greatly 
to  extend  our  arable  land":  Mr.  T.  H.  Middle- 
ton,  Assistant  Secretary  to  the  Board  of  Agricul- 

216 


THE  LAND,  1918 

ture.  But  I  am  not  going  into  the  pros  and  cons 
of  the  holdings  question.  I  desire  rather  to  point 
out  here  that  a  moment  is  approaching,  which 
will  never  come  again,  for  the  resettling  of  the 
land. 

A  rough  census  taken  in  1916  among  our  sol- 
diers gave  the  astounding  figure  of  750,000  de- 
sirous of  going  on  the  land.  That  figure  will 
shrink  to  a  mere  skeleton  unless  on  demobilisation 
the  Government  is  ready  with  a  comprehensive 
plan.  The  men  fall  roughly  into  two  classes :  those 
who  were  already  on  the  land;  those  who  were  not. 
The  first  will  want  to  go  back  to  their  own  dis- 
tricts, but  not  to  the  cottages  and  wages  the}'' 
had  before  the  war.  For  them,  it  is  essential  to 
provide  new  cottages  with  larger  gardens,  other- 
wise they  will  go  to  the  Dominions,  to  America, 
or  to  the  towns.  A  fresh  census  should  be  taken 
and  kept  up  to  date,  the  wants  of  each  man 
noted,  and  a  definite  attempt  made  now  to  ear- 
mark sites  and  material  for  building,  to  provide 
the  garden  plots,  and  plan  the  best  and  prettiest 
type  of  cottage.  For  lack  of  labour  and  material 
no  substantial  progress  can  be  made  with  hous- 
ing while  the  war  is  on,  but  if  a  man  can  see  his 
cottage  and  his  ground  ready,  in  the  air,  he  will 
wait;  if  he  cannot,  he  will  be  off,  and  we  shall 
have  lost  him.     Wages  are  not  to  fall  again  below 

217 


THE  LAND,  1918 

twenty-five  shillings,  and  will  probably  stay  at  a 
considerably  higher  level.  The  cottage  and  the 
garden  ground  for  these  men  will  be  the  deter- 
mining factor,  and  that  garden  ground  should  be 
at  least  an  acre.  A  larger  class  by  far  will  be 
men  who  were  not  on  the  land,  but  having  tasted 
open-air  life,  think  they  wish  to  continue  it.  A 
fresh  census  of  this  class  and  their  wants  should 
be  taken  also.  It  will  subdivide  them  into  men 
who  want  the  Hfe  of  independent  medium  and 
small  holders,  with  from  100  to  20  acres  of  land, 
and  men  who  with  5  or  10  acres  of  their  own  are 
willing  to  supplement  their  living  by  seasonal 
work  on  the  large  farms.  For  all  a  cut-and-dried 
scheme  providing  land  and  homes  is  absolutely 
essential.  If  they  cannot  be  assured  of  having 
these  within  a  few  months  of  their  return  to  civil 
life,  they  will  go  either  to  the  Dominions  or  back 
to  the  towns.  One  of  them,  I  am  told,  thus 
forecasts  their  future  wants:  "WTien  we're  free 
we  shall  have  a  big  spree  in  the  town;  we  shall 
then  take  the  first  job  that  comes  along;  if  it's 
an  indoor  job  we  shan't  be  able  to  stick  it  and 
shall  want  to  get  on  the  land."  I  am  pretty  sure 
he's  wrong.  He  will  want  his  spree,  of  course; 
but  if  he  is  allowed  to  go  hack  to  a  town  job  he  is 
not  at  all  likely  to  leave  it  again.  Men  so  soon 
get  used  to  things,  and  the  towns  have  a  fierce 

218 


THE  LAND,   1918 

grip.  For  this  second  class,  no  less  than  the 
first,  it  is  vital  to  have  the  land  ready,  and  the 
cottages  estimated  for.  I  think  men  of  both 
these  classes,  when  free,  should  be  set  at  once  to 
the  building  of  their  own  homes  and  the  prepara- 
tion of  their  land.  I  think  huts  ought  to  be  ready 
for  them  and  their  wives  till  their  homes  are 
habitable.  A  man  who  takes  a  hand  in  the 
building  of  his  house,  and  the  first  work  on  his 
new  holding,  is  far  less  likely  to  abandon  his  idea 
of  settling  on  the  land  than  a  man  who  is  simply 
dumped  into  a  ready-made  concern.  That  is 
human  nature.  Let  him  begin  at  the  beginning, 
and  while  his  house  is  going  up  be  assisted  and 
instructed.  Frankly,  I  am  afraid  that  in  the 
difficulty  of  fixing  on  an  ideal  scheme  and  ideal 
ways  of  working  it,  we  shall  forget  that  the  mo- 
ment of  demobilisation  is  unique.  Any  scheme, 
however  rough  and  ready,  which  will  fix  men  or 
their  intention  of  settling  on  the  land  in  Britain 
at  the  moment  of  demobilisation  will  be  worth  a 
hundred  better-laid  plans  which  have  waited  for 
perfection  till  that  one  precious  moment  is  over- 
past. While  doctors  quarrel,  or  lay  their  heads 
together,  the  patient  dies. 

The  Government,  I  understand,  have  adopted 
a  scheme  by  which  they  can  secure  land.  If  they 
have  not  ascertained  from  these  men  what  land 

219 


THE  LAND,   1918 

they  will  want,  and  secured  that  land  by  the  time 
the  men  are  ready,  that  scheme  will  be  of  little 
use  to  them. 

The  Government,  I  gather,  have  decided  on  a 
huge  scheme  for  urban  and  rural  housing.  About 
that  I  have  this  to  say.  The  rural  housing  ought 
to  take  precedence  of  the  urban,  not  because  it  is 
more  intrinsically  necessar}^,  but  because  if  the 
moment  of  demobilisation  is  let  slip  for  want  of 
rural  cottages,  we  shall  lose  our  very  life  blood, 
our  future  safety,  perhaps  our  existence  as  a 
nation.  We  must  seize  on  this  one  precious 
chance  of  restoring  the  land  and  guaranteeing 
our  future.  The  towns  can  wait  a  little  for  their 
housing,  the  country  cannot.  It  is  a  sort  of  test 
question  for  our  leaders  in  every  Party.  Surely 
they  will  rise  to  the  vital  necessity  of  grasping 
this  chance!  If,  when  the  danger  of  starvation 
has  been  staring  us  hourly  in  the  face  for  years 
on  end,  and  we  have  for  once  men  in  hundreds  of 
thousands  waiting  and  hoping  to  be  settled  on 
the  land,  to  give  us  the  safety  of  the  future — if, 
in  such  circumstances,  we  cannot  agree  to  make 
the  most  of  that  chance,  it  will  show  such  lack  of 
vision  that  I  really  feel  we  may  as  well  throw  up 
the  sponge.  If  jealousy  by  towns  of  countn^  can 
so  blind  pubHc  opinion  to  our  danger  and  our 
chance,  so  that  no  precedence  can  be  given  to 

220 


THE  LAND,   1918 

rural  needs,  well,  then,  frankly  we  are  not  fit  to 
live  as  a  nation. 

I  am  told  that  Germany  has  seen  to  this  mat- 
ter. She  does  not  mean  to  be  starved  in  the 
future;  she  intends  to  keep  the  backbone  of  her 
countiy  sound.  She,  who  already  grew  80  per 
cent,  of  her  food,  will  grow  it  all.  She,  who  al- 
ready appreciated  the  dangers  of  a  rampant 
industrialism,  will  take  no  further  risks  with  the 
physique  of  her  population.  We  who  did  not 
grow  one-half  of  our  food,  and  whose  riotous  in- 
dustrialism has  made  far  greater  inroads  on  our 
physique;  we  who,  though  we  have  not  yet  suf- 
fered the  privations  of  Germany,  have  been  in 
far  more  real  danger — we  shall  talk  about  it,  say 
how  grave  the  situation  is,  how  "profoundly"  we 
are  impressed  by  the  need  to  feed  ourselves — and 
we  shall  act,  I  am  very  much  afraid,  too  late. 

There  are  times  when  the  proverb:  "Act  in 
haste  and  repent  at  leisure"  should  be  written 
"Unless  you  act  in  haste  you  will  repent  at  lei- 
sure." This  is  such  a  time.  We  can  take,  of 
course,  the  right  steps  or  the  wrong  steps  to  set- 
tle our  soldiers  on  the  land;  but  no  wrong  step 
we  can  take  will  be  so  utterly  wrong  as  to  let  the 
moment  of  demobilisation  slip.  We  have  a  good 
and  zealous  Minister  of  Agriculture,  we  have 
good  men  alive  to  the  necessity,  working  on  this 

221 


THE  LAND,  1918 

job.  If  we  miss  the  chance  it  will  be  because 
''interests"  purblind,  seUBsh  and  perverse,  and  a 
lethargic  public  opinion,  do  not  back  them;  be- 
cause we  want  to  talk  it  out;  because  trade  and 
industry  think  themselves  of  superior  importance 
to  the  land.  Henceforth  trade  and  industry  are 
of  secondary  importance  in  this  country.  There 
is  only  one  thing  of  absolutely  vital  importance, 
and  that  is  agriculture. 

IV 

INSTRUCTION 

I  who  have  lived  most  of  my  time  on  a  farm  for 
many  years,  in  daily  contact  with  farmer  and 
labourer,  do  really  appreciate  what  variety  and 
depth  of  knowledge  is  wanted  for  good  farming. 
It  is  a  lesson  to  the  armchair  reformer  to  watch  a 
farmer  walking  across  the  "home  meadow" 
whence  he  can  see  a  good  way  over  his  land. 
One  can  feel  the  slow  wisdom  working  in  his  head. 
A  halt,  a  look  this  way  and  that,  a  whistle,  the 
call  of  some  instruction  so  vernacular  that  only  a 
native  could  understand;  the  contemplation  of 
sheep,  beasts,  sky,  crops;  always  something  be- 
ing noted,  and  shrewd  deductions  made  there- 
from. It  is  a  great  art,  and,  like  all  art,  to  be 
learned  only  with  the  sweat  of  the  brow  and  a 

222 


iki 


THE  LAND,   1918 

long,  minute  attention  to  innumerable  details. 
You  cannot  play  at  farming,  and  you  cannot 
"mug  it  up."  One  understands  the  contempt  of 
the  farmer  born  and  bred  for  the  book-skilled 
gentleman  who  tries  to  instruct  his  grandmother 
in  the  sucking  of  eggs.  The  farmer's  knowledge, 
acquired  through  years  of  dumb  wrestling  with 
Nature,  in  his  own  particular  corner,  is  his  strength 
and — his  weakness.  Vision  of  the  land  at  large, 
of  its  potentialities,  and  its  needs  is  almost  of 
necessity  excluded.  The  practical  farmers  of  our 
generation  might  well  be  likened  unto  saihng-ship 
seamen  in  an  age  when  it  has  suddenly  become 
needful  to  carry  commerce  by  steam.  They  are 
pupils  of  the  stem  taskmaster  bankruptcy;  the 
children  of  the  years  from  1874-1897,  when  the 
nation  had  turned  its  thumb  down  on  British 
farmers,  and  left  them  to  fight,  unaided,  against 
extinction.  They  have  been  brought  up  to  carry 
on  against  contrary  winds  and  save  themselves 
as  best  they  could.  Well,  they  have  done  it ;  and 
now  they  are  being  asked  to  reverse  their  proc- 
esses in  the  interests  of  a  countr}^  which  left  them 
in  the  lurch.  Naturally  they  are  not  yet  per- 
suaded that  the  countr}'-  will  not  leave  them  in  the 
lurch  again. 

Instruction  of  the  British  farmer  begins  with 
the  fortification  of  his  will  by  confidence.    When 

223 


THE  LAND,   1918 

you  ask  him  to  plough  up  grass  land,  to  revise 
the  rotation  of  his  crops,  to  grow  wheat,  to  use 
new  brands  of  corn,  to  plough  with  tractors,  and 
to  co-operate,  you  are  asking  a  man  deeply  and 
deservedly  cynical  about  your  intentions  and 
your  knowledge.  He  has  seen  wheat  fail  all  his 
life,  he  has  seen  grass  succeed.  Grass  has  saved 
him,  and  now  he  is  asked  to  turn  his  back  on  it. 
Little  wonder  that  he  curses  you  for  a  meddling 
fool.  "Prove  it !"  he  says — and  you  cannot.  You 
could  if  you  had  it  in  your  power  to  show  him 
that  your  guarantee  of  a  fair  price  for  wheat  was 
"good  as  the  Bank."  Thus,  the  first  item  of  in- 
stmction  to  the  farmer  consists  in  the  definite 
alteration  of  public  opinion  towards  the  land  by 
adoption  of  the  sine  qua  non  that  in  future  we  will 
feed  ourselves.  The  majority  of  our  farmers  do 
not  think  their  interests  are  being  served  by  the 
present  revolution  of  farming.  Patriotic  fear  for 
the  country,  and  dread  of  D.O.R.A. — not  quite 
the  same  thing — are  driving  them  on.  Besides,  it 
is  the  townsmen  of  Britain,  not  the  farmers,  who 
are  in  danger  of  starvation,  not  merely  now,  but 
henceforth  for  evermore  until  we  feed  ourselves. 
If  starvation  really  knocked  at  our  doors,  the  only 
houses  it  would  not  enter  would  be  the  houses  of 
those  who  grow  food.  The  farmers  in  Germany 
are  all  right;  they  would  be  all  right  here.    The 

224 


THE  LAND,   1918 

townsmen  of  this  country  were  entirely  respon- 
sible for  our  present  condition,  and  the  very  least 
they  can  do  is  to  support  their  own  salvation. 
But  while  with  one  corner  of  their  mouths  the 
towns  are  now  shouting:  '^Grow  food!  Feed  us, 
please!"  with  the  other  they  are  still  inclined  to 
add:  "You  pampered  industry!"  Alas!  we  can- 
not have  it  both  ways. 

The  second  point  I  want  to  make  about  in- 
struction is  the  importance  of  youth.  In  America, 
where  they  contemplate  a  labour  shortage  of 
2,000,000  men  on  their  farms,  they  are  using  boys 
from  sixteen  to  twenty-one,  when  their  mihtary 
age  begins.  Can  we  not  do  the  same  here  ?  Most 
of  our  boys  from  fifteen  to  eighteen  are  now  on 
other  work.  But  the  work  they  are  doing  could 
surely  be  done  by  girls  or  women.  If  we  could 
put  even  a  couple  of  hundred  thousand  boys  of 
that  age  on  the  land  it  would  be  the  solution  of 
our  present  agricultural  labour  shortage,  and  the 
very  best  thing  that  could  happen  for  the  future 
of  fanning.  The  boys  would  learn  at  first  hand; 
they  would  learn  slowly  and  thoroughly;  and 
many  of  them  would  stay  on  the  land.  They 
might  be  given  specialised  schooling  in  agricul- 
ture, the  most  important  schooling  we  can  give 
our  rising  generation,  while  all  of  them  would 
gain  physically.     By  employing  women  on  the 

225 


THE  LAND,   1918 

land,  where  we  can  employ  boys  of  from  fifteen 
to  eighteen,  we  are  blind-alleying.  Women  will 
not  stay  on  the  land  in  any  numbers;  few  will 
wish  that  they  should.  Boys  will,  and  eveiy  one 
would  wish  that  they  may. 

The  third  point  I  want  to  make  concerns  the 
model  farm.  If  we  are  to  have  resettlement  on 
any  large  scale  and  base  our  farming  on  crops  in 
future,  the  accessibility  of  the  best  practical  ad- 
vice is  an  absolute  essential. 

Till  reformed  education  begins  to  take  effect, 
the  advice  and  aid  of  "model"  farmers  should  be 
available  in  every  district.  Some  recognised  di- 
ploma might  with  advantage  be  given  to  farmers 
for  outstanding  merit  and  enterprise.  No  in- 
struction provided  from  our  advisory  agricul- 
tural councils  or  colleges  can  have  as  much  pres- 
tige and  use  in  any  district  as  the  advice  of  the 
leading  farmer  who  had  been  crowned  as  a  suc- 
cessful expert.  It  is  ever  well  in  this  country  to 
take  advantage  of  the  competitive  spirit  which 
lies  deep  in  the  bones  of  our  race.  To  give  the 
best  farmers  a  position  and  prestige  to  which 
other  farmers  can  aspire  would  speed  up  effort 
everywhere.  We  want  more  competition  in  ac- 
tual husbandry  and  less  competition  in  matters 
of  purchase  and  sale.  And  that  brings  us  to  the 
vital  question  of  co-operation. 

226 


I 


THE  LAND,   1918 
V 

CO-OPERATION    (sMALL  HOLDINGS) 

"The  most  important  economic  question  for  all 
nations  in  the  past  has  been,  and  in  the  future 
will  be,  the  question  of  a  sufficient  food  supply, 
independent  of  imports. 

"It  is  doubtful  whether  the  replacement  of 
German  agriculture  on  a  sound  basis  in  the  last 
ten  years  is  to  be  ascribed  in  a  greater  measure 
to  technical  advance  in  agricultural  methods,  or 
to  the  development  of  the  co-operative  system. 
Perhaps  it  would  be  right  to  say  that  for  the 
large  farms  it  is  due  to  the  first,  and  for  the  smaller 
farms  (three  quarters  of  the  arable  land  in  Ger- 
many) to  the  second.  For  it  is  only  through 
co-operation  that  the  advantages  of  farming  on  a 
large  scale  are  made  possible  for  smaller  farmers. 
The  more  important  of  those  advantages  are  the 
regulated  purchase  of  all  raw  materials  and  half- 
finished  products  (artificial  manures,  feeding  stuffs, 
seeds,  etc.),  better  prices  for  products,  facilities 
for  making  use,  in  moderation,  of  personal  credit 
at  a  cheap  rate  of  interest,  together  with  the 
possibility  of  saving  and  putting  aside  small  sums 
of  interest;  all  these  advantages  of  the  large  farmer 
have  been  placed  within  the  reach  of  the  small 

227 


THE  LAND,   1918 

farmers  by  local  co-operative  societies  for  buying, 
selling,  and  farming  co-operatively,  as  well  as 
by  saving  and  other  banks,  all  connected  to  cen- 
tral associations  and  central  co-operative  societies. 

^^Over  two  million  small  farmers  are  organised  in 
Germany  on  co-operative  lines. ^'  * 

Nearly  two  million  small  farmers  co-operated 
in  Germanj'-;  and  here — how  many?  The  Regis- 
trar returns  the  numbers  for  1916  at  1,427  small 
holders. 

In  the  view  of  all  authorities  co-operation  is 
essential  for  the  success  of  small  farmere  and 
smaE  holders;  but  it  needs  no  brilliant  intellect, 
nor  any  sweep  of  the  imagination  to  see  a  truth 
plainer  than  the  nose  on  a  man's  face. 

''There  is  some  reason  to  hope,"  says  Mr. 
Middleton,  "that  after  the  war  agricultm*alists 
will  show  a  greater  disposition  to  co-operate;  but 
we  cannot  expect  co-operation  to  do  as  much 
for  British  agriculture  as  it  has  done  for  the 
Germans,  who  so  readily  join  societies  and  sup- 
port co-operative  efforts." 

So  much  the  worse  for  us ! 

The  Agricultural  Organisation  Society,  the  offi- 
cially  recognised   agency   for  fostering   the   co- 

*  From  an  essay  by  the  President  of  the  German  Agricultural 
Council,  quoted  by  Mr.  T.  H.  Middleton,  of  the  Board  of  Agri- 
culture, in  his  report  on  the  recent  development  oi  German 
agriculture. 

228 


THE  LAND,   1918 

operative  principle;  has  recently  formed  an  Agri- 
cultural Wholesale  Society  with  a  large  subscribed 
capital,  for  the  purchase  of  all  farming  require- 
ments, and  the  marketing  of  produce,  to  be  at 
the  disposal  of  all  co-operated  farmers,  small 
holders,  and  allotment  holders,  whose  societies 
are  affihated  to  the  Agricultural  Organisation 
Society.  This  is  a  step  of  infinite  promise.  The 
drawing  together  of  these  three  classes  of  workers 
on  the  land  is  in  itself  a  matter  of  great  impor- 
tance. One  of  the  chief  complaints  of  small  hold- 
ers in  the  past  has  been  that  large  holders  regard 
them  askance.  The  same,  perhaps,  applies  to 
the  attitude  of  the  small  holder  to  the  allotment 
holder.  That  is  all  bad.  Men  and  women  on 
the  land  should  be  one  big  family,  with  interests 
and  sympathies  in  common  and  a  neighbourly 
feeUng. 

A  leaflet  of  the  Agricultural  Organisation  So- 
ciety thus  describes  a  certain  co-operative  small 
holdings'  society  with  seventeen  members  renting 
ninety  acres.  "It  owns  a  team  of  horses,  cart, 
horse-hoe,  plough,  ridger,  harrow,  Cambridge 
roller,  marker;  and  hires  other  implements  as 
required;  it  insures,  buys,  and  sells  co-operatively. 
This  year  (for  patriotic  reasons)  wheat  and  po- 
tatoes form  the  chief  crop,  with  sufficient  oats, 
barley,  beans  and  mangolds  to  feed  the  horses  and 

229 


THE  LAND,  1918 

the  pigs,  of  which  there  are  many.  The  society 
last  year  marketed  more  fat  pigs  than  the  rest  of 
the  village  and  adjoining  farms  put  together. 

"  The  land,  on  the  whole,  is  undoubtedly  better 
cultivated  and  cropped,  and  supports  a  far  larger 
head  of  population  per  acre  than  the  neighbouring 
large  farms.''  Even  allowing  that  the  first  state- 
ment may  be  disputed,  the  last  is  beyond  dispute, 
and  is  the  important  thing  to  bear  in  mind  about 
small  holdings  from  the  national  point  of  view; 
for  every  extra  man  and  woman  on  the  land  is  a 
credit  item  in  the  bank  book  of  the  nation's  fu- 
ture. 

"In  addition,"  says  the  leaflet,  "there  is  a 
friendly  spirit  prevalent  among  the  members, 
who  are  always  willing  to  help  each  other,  and 
at  harvest  time  combine  to  gather  in  the  crops." 

With  more  land,  not  only  some,  but  all  the 
members  of  this  little  society  could  support 
themselves  entirely  on  their  holdings.  "The 
members  value  their  independence  and  freedom, 
but  recognise  the  value  of  combined  action  and 
new  ideas." 

Now  this  is  exactly  what  we  want.  For  in- 
stance, these  members  have  found  out  that  the 
profit  on  potatoes  when  home-grown  farmyard 
manure  alone  was  used  was  only  14s.  Qd.  per  acre ; 
and   that   a   suitable   combination   of   artificial 

230 


THE   LAND,   1918 

manures  gave  a  profit  of  £14  12s.  6d.  an  acre, 
with  double  the  yield.  Mutual  help  and  the 
spread  of  knowledge;  more  men  and  women  on 
the  land — this  is  the  value  of  the  agricultural  co- 
operative movement,  whose  importance  to  this 
country  it  is  impossible  to  over-estimate. 

From  letters  of  small  holders  I  take  the  follow- 
ing remarks: — 

"Of  course  it's  absolutely  necessary  that  the 
prospective  small  holder  should  have  a  thorough 
knowledge  of  farming." 

"In  regard  to  implements,  you  need  as  many 
of  some  sorts  on  a  small  holding  as  you  do  on  a 
large  farm.  A  small  man  can't  afford  to  buy  all, 
so  he  has  to  work  at  a  disadvantage.  .  .  .  Then 
as  to  seeds,  why  not  buy  them  wholesale,  and 
sell  them  to  the  small  holder,  also  manures,  and 
many  other  things  which  the  small  holder  has  to 
pay  through  the  nose  for." 

"Men  with  no  actual  knowledge  of  land  work 
would  rarely  succeed  whatever  financial  backing 
they  might  receive." 

"About  here  small  holdings  are  usually  let  to 
men  who  have  been  tradesmen  or  pitmen,  and 
they  of  course  cannot  be  expected  to  make  the 
most  of  them." 

"When  you  restrict  a  farmer  to  50  acres  he 
ought  to  be  provided  with  ample  and  proper 

231 


THE   LAND,    1918 

buildings  for  every  kind  of  stock  he  wishes  to 
keep." 

These  few  remarks,  which  might  be  supple- 
mented ad  libitum,  illustrate  the  difficulties  and 
dangers  which  beset  any  large  scheme  of  land 
settlement  by  our  returning  soldiers  and  others. 
Such  a  scheme  is  bound  to  fail  imless  it  is  based 
most  firmly  on  co-operation,  for,  without  that, 
the  two  absolute  essentials — knowledge,  with  the 
benefit  of  practical  advice  and  help;  and  assist- 
ance by  way  of  co-operative  finance,  and  co- 
operatively-owned implements,  will  be  lacking. 

Set  the  returning  soldier  down  on  the  land  to 
work  it  on  his  own  and,  whatever  his  good-will, 
you  present  the  countryside  with  failure.  Place 
at  his  back  pooled  labour,  monetary  help  and 
knowledge,  and,  above  all,  the  spirit  of  mutual 
aid,  and  you  may,  and  I  beheve  will,  triumph  over 
difficulties,  which  are  admittedly  very  great. 

VI 

CO-OPERATION  (ALLOTMENTS) 

The  growth  of  allotment  gardens  is  a  striking 
feature  of  our  agricultural  development  under 
stimulus  of  the  war.  They  say  a  million  and  a 
half  allotment  gardens  are  now  being  worked  on. 
That  is,  no  doubt,  a  papery  figure;  nor  is  it  so 

232 


THE   LAND,   1918 

much  the  number,  as  what  is  being  done  on  them, 
that  matters.  Romance  may  have  "brought  up 
the  nine-fifteen,"  but  it  will  not  bring  up  potatoes. 
StUl,  these  new  allotments  without  doubt  add 
very  greatly  to  our  food  supply,  give  hosts  of  our 
town  population  healthy  work  in  the  open  air,  and 
revive  in  them  that  "earth  instinct"  which  was 
in  danger  of  being  utteriy  lost.  The  spade  is  a 
grand  corrective  of  nerve  strain,  and  the  more 
town  and  factory  workers  take  up  allotment  gar- 
dens, the  better  for  each  individual,  and  for  us  aU 
as  a  race. 

They  say  nearly  all  the  ground  available  round 
our  towns  has  already  been  utilised.  But  DORA, 
in  her  wild  career,  may  yet  wring  out  another 
hundred  thousand  acres.  I  wish  her  well  in  this 
particular  activity.  And  the  Government  she 
serves  with  such  devotion  will  betray  her  if,  when 
DORA  is  in  her  grave — consummation  devoutly 
to  be  wished — her  work  on  allotment  gardens  is 
not  continued.  There  is  always  a  ring  of  land 
round  a  town,  like  a  halo  round  the  moon.  As 
the  town's  girth  increases,  so  should  that  halo; 
and  even  in  time  of  peace,  larger  and  larger,  not 
less  and  less,  should  grow  the  number  of  town 
dwellers  raising  vegetables,  fruit  and  flowers,  rest- 
ing their  nerves  and  expanding  lungs  and  muscles 
with  healthy  outdoor  work. 

233 


THE   LAND,   1918 

"In  no  direction  is  the  co-operative  principle 
more  adaptable  or  more  useful  than  in  the  matter 
of  Allotment  Associations." 

There  are  now  allotment  associations  in  man}'- 
parts  of  the  country.  One  at  Winchester  has  over 
1,000  tenant  members.  And  round  the  great 
manufacturing  towns  many  others  have  been 
formed. 

To  illustrate  the  advantages  of  such  co-opera- 
tion, let  me  quote  a  little  from  the  Hon.  Secretaiy 
of  the  Urmston  Allotments  Association,  near 
Manchester:  "Though  the  Urmston  men  had 
foremost  in  their  mind  the  aim  of  producing  pay- 
able crops  .  .  .  they  determined  that  their  allot- 
ments should  be  convenient  and  comfortable  to 
work,  and  pleasing  to  look  upon.  ...  It  is  a  de- 
lusion often  found  among  novices  that  ordinary 
ground  takes  a  long  time  to  get  into  decent  order; 
and  is  an  expensive  business.  But  enlightened 
and  energetic  men  working  together  can  do  won- 
derful things.  They  did  them  at  Urmston.  The 
ground  was  only  broken  up  in  March,  1916,  but 
in  the  same  season  splendid  crops  of  peas,  po- 
tatoes and  other  vegetables  were  raised  by  the 
holders,  the  majority  of  whom  had  little  or  no  previ- 
ous experience  of  gardening.  ...  So  as  to  deal 
with  the  main  needs  of  the  members  co-opera- 
tively in  the  most  effective  manner  a  Trading 

234 


THE   LAND,   1918 

Committee  was  appointed  to  advise  and  make 
contracts.  .  .  .  Manure,  lime,  salt,  and  artificial 
manures  have  been  ordered  collectively;  and  seeds 
and  other  gardening  requisites  arranged  for  at 
liberal  discounts." 

Besides  all  this  the  association  has  fought  the 
potato  wart  disease;  had  its  soil  analysed;  edu- 
cated its  members  through  literature  and  lec- 
tures; made  roads  and  fences;  looked  after  the 
appearance  of  its  plots,  and  encouraged  flower- 
growing.  Finally,  a  neighbourly  feeling  of  friendly 
emulation  has  grown  up  among  its  members. 
And  this  is  their  conclusion:  "The  advantages  of 
co-operation  are  not  confined  to  economy  in  time 
and  money,  for  the  common  interest  that  binds 
all  members  to  seek  the  success  of  the  Associa- 
tion, also  provides  the  means  of  developing  and 
utilising  the  individual  talents  of  the  members 
for  communal  and  national  purposes." 

They  speak,  indeed,  like  a  book,  and  every 
word  is  true — which  is  not  always  the  same  thing. 

The  Agricultural  Organisation  Society  gives 
every  a^istance  in  forming  these  associations; 
and  the  more  there  are  of  them  the  greater  will 
be  the  output  of  food,  the  strength  and  knowledge 
of  the  individual  plotholder,  the  stabihty  of  his 
tenure,  and  the  advantage  of  the  nation. 

Mistrust  and  reserve  between  workers  on  the 
235 


THE   LAND,   1918 

land,  be  they  large  farmers,  small  farmers,  or 
plotholders  is  the  result  of  combining  husbandry 
with  the  habits  and  qualities  of  the  salesman.  If 
a  man's  business  is  to  get  the  better  of  his  neigh- 
bours on  market  days,  it  will  be  his  pleasure  to 
doubt  them  on  all  other  days. 

The  co-operative  system,  by  conducting  pur- 
chase and  sale  impersonally,  removes  half  the 
reason  and  excuse  for  curmudgeonery,  besides  se- 
curing better  prices  both  at  sale  and  purchase. 
To  the  disgust  of  the  cynic,  moral  and  material 
advantage  here  go  hand  in  hand.  Throughout 
agriculture  co-operation  will  do  more  than  any- 
thing else  to  restore  spirit  and  economy  to  an 
industry  which  had  long  become  dejected,  suspi- 
cious and  wasteful;  and  it  will  help  to  remove 
jealousy  and  distrust  between  townsmen  and  coun- 
trymen. The  allotment  holder,  if  encouraged  and 
given  fixity  of  tenure,  or  at  all  events  the  power  of 
getting  fresh  ground  if  he  must  give  up  what  he 
has — a  vital  matter — will  become  the  necessary 
link  between  town  and  comitry,  with  mind  open 
to  the  influence  of  both.  The  more  he  is  brought 
into  working  contact  with  the  small  holder  and 
the  large  farmer  the  better  he  will  appreciate  his 
own  importance  to  the  country  and  ensure  theirs. 
But  this  contact  can  only  be  established  through 
some  central  body,  and  by  use  of  a  wholesale 

236 


THE   LAND,   1918 

society  for  trading  and  other  purposes,  such  as 
has  just  been  set  up  for  all  classes  of  co-operated 
agriculturalists. 

Addressing  a  recent  meeting  of  its  members, 
the  Chairman  of  the  Agricultural  Organisation 
Society,  Mr.  Leslie  Scott,  spoke  thus: — "We  have 
to  cover  the  country"  (with  co-operative  societies), 
"and  we  have  got  to  get  all  the  farmers  in!  If 
we  can  carry  out  any  such  scheme  as  this,  which 
will  rope  in  all  the  farmers  of  the  country-,  what 
a  magnificent  position  we  shall  be  in !  You  will 
have  your  great  trading  organisation  with  its 
central  wholesale  society !  You  will  have  your 
organisation  side  with  the  Agricultural  Organisa- 
tion Society  at  the  centre.  .  .  .  You  will  be  able 
to  use  that  side  for  all  the  ancillary  purposes 
connected  with  farming;  and  do  a  great  deal  in 
the  v/ay  of  expert  assistance.  And  through  your 
electing  the  Board  of  Governors  of  the  Agricul- 
tural Organisation  Society,  with  the  provincial 
branch  Committees,  you  will  have  what  is  in 
effect  a  central  Parliament  in  London.  .  .  .  You 
will  be  able  to  put  before  the  country,  both  locally 
and  here  in  London,  the  views  of  the  farming 
community,  and,  those  views  will  get  from  Gov- 
ernment Departments  an  attention  which  the 
farming  industry  in  the  past  has  failed  to  get. 
You  will  command  a  power  in  the  country." 

237 


THE   LAND,   1918 

And  in  a  letter  to  Mr.  Scott,  read  at  the  same 
meeting,  the  present  Minister  of  Agriculture  had 
this  to  say  about  co-operation: 

"Farming  is  a  business  in  which  as  in  every 
other  industry  union  is  strength.  .  .  .  Every 
farmer  should  belong  to  a  co-operative  society. 
.  .  .  Small  societies  Hke  small  farmers,  must" 
(in  their  turn)  "co-operate.  .  .  .  The  word 
'  farmers '  is  intended  to  include  all  those  who  cul- 
tivate the  land.  In  this  sense  allotment  holders 
are  farmers,  and  I  trust  that  the  union  of  all  cul- 
tivators of  the  land  in  this  sense  will  help  to 
bridge  the  gap  between  town  and  country." 

That  townsman  and  countryman  should  feel 
their  interests  to  be  at  bottom  the  same  goes  to 
the  root  of  any  land  revival. 

VII 

VALEDICTORY 

"There  are  many  who  contend  that  the  nation 
will  never  again  allow  its  rural  industry  to  be 
neglected  and  discouraged  as  it  was  in  the  past; 
that  the  war  has  taught  a  lesson  which  will  not 
soon  be  forgotten.  This  view  of  the  national 
temperament  is  considered  by  others  to  be  too 
confident.  It  is  the  firm  conviction  of  this  school 
that  the  consumer  will  speedily  return  to  his  old 

238 


THE   LAND,   1918 

habit  of  indifference  to  national  stability  in  the 
matter  of  food,  and  that  Parliament  acting  at  his 
bidding,  will  manifest  equal  apathy." 

These  words,  taken  from  a  leader  in  The  Times 
of  February  11th,  1918,  bring  me  back  to  the 
starting  point  of  these  ragged  reflections.  There 
will  be  no  permanent  stablishing  of  our  agricul- 
ture, no  lasting  advance  towards  safety  and  health, 
if  we  have  not  vision  and  a  fixed  ideal.  The  ruts 
of  the  past  were  deep,  and  our  habit  is  to  walk 
along  without  looking  to  left  or  right.  A  Liber- 
alism worthy  of  the  word  should  lift  its  head  and 
see  new  paths.  The  Liberalism  of  the  past,  bent 
on  the  improvement  of  the  people  and  the  growiih 
of  good-will  between  nations,  forgot  in  that  absorp- 
tion to  take  in  the  whole  truth.  Fixing  its  eyes 
on  measures  which  should  redeem  the  evils  of 
the  day,  it  did  not  see  that  those  evils  were  grow- 
ing faster  than  all  possible  remedy,  because  we 
had  forgotten  that  a  great  community  bounti- 
fully blessed  by  Nature  has  no  business  to  exist 
parasitically  on  the  earth  produce  of  other  com- 
munities; and  because  our  position  imder  pure 
free  trade,  and  pure  industrialism,  was  making 
us  a  tempting  bait  for  aggression,  and  retarding 
the  very  good-will  between  nations  which  it  de- 
sired so  earnestly. 

The  human  animal  perishes  if  not  fed.  We 
239 


THE   LAND,   1918 

have  gone  so  far  with  our  happy-go-lucky  scheme 
of  existence  that  it  has  become  necessary  to  re- 
mind ourselves  of  that.  So  long  as  we  had  money 
we  thought  we  could  continue  to  exist.  Not  so. 
Henceforth  till  we  feed  ourselves  again,  we  live 
on  sufferance,  and  dangle  before  all  eyes  the  apple 
of  discord.  A  self-supporting  Britain,  free  from 
this  carking  fear,  would  become  once  more  a 
liberalising  power.  A  Britain  fed  from  overseas 
can  only  be  an  Imperialistic  Junker,  armed  to  the 
teeth,  jealous  and  doubtful  of  each  move  by  any 
foreigner;  prizing  quantity  not  quahty;  indiffer- 
ent about  the  condition  of  his  heart.  Such  a 
Britain  dare  not  be  liberal  if  it  will. 

The  greatest  obstacle  to  a  true  League  of 
Nations,  with  the  exception  of  the  condition  of 
Russia,  will  be  the  condition  of  Britain,  till  she 
can  feed  herself. 

I  beUeve  in  the  principle  of  free  trade,  because 
it  forces  man  to  put  his  best  leg  foremost.  But 
all  is  a  question  of  degree  in  this  world.  It  is  no 
use  starting  a  donkey,  in  the  Derby,  and  bawling 
in  its  ear:  "A  fair  field  and  no  favour !"  especially 
if  all  your  money  is  on  the  donkey.  All  our 
money  is  henceforth  on  our  agriculture  till  we 
have  brought  it  into  its  own.  And  that  can  only 
be  done  at  present  with  the  help  of  bounty. 

The  other  day  a  Canadian  free  trader  said: 
240 


THE   LAND,   1918 

"It  all  depends  on  what  sort  of  peace  we  secure; 
if  we  have  a  crushing  victory,  I  see  no  reason 
why  Britain  should  not  go  on  importing  her 
food." 

Fallacy — politically  and  biologically!  The 
worst  thing  that  could  happen  to  us  after  the 
war  would  be  a  sense  of  perfect  security,  in  which 
to  continue  to  neglect  our  agriculture  and  in- 
crease our  towns.  Does  any  man  think  that  a 
momentary  exhaustion  of  our  enemy  is  going  to 
prevent  that  huge  and  vigorous  nation  from  be- 
coming strong  again?  Does  he  believe  that  we 
can  trust  a  League  of  Nations — a  noble  project, 
for  which  we  must  all  work — to  prevent  war  till 
we  have  seen  it  successful  for  at  least  a  genera- 
tion? Does  he  consider  that  our  national  phy- 
sique will  stand  another  fifty  years  of  rampant 
industrialism  without  fresh  country  stocks  to 
breed  from?  Does  he  suppose  that  the  use  of 
the  air  and  the  underparts  of  the  sea  is  more 
than  just  beginning? 

Politically,  our  independence  in  the  matter  of 
food  is  essential  to  good  will  between  the  nations. 
Biologically,  more  country  life  is  essential  to 
British  health.  The  improvement  of  town  and 
factory  conditions  may  do  something  to  arrest 
degeneration,  but  in  my  firm  conviction  it  cannot 
hope  to  do  enough  in  a  land  where  towns  have 

241 


THE   LAND,   1918 

been  allowed  to  absorb  seven-ninths  of  the  popu- 
lation, and — such  crowded,  grimy  towns ! 

Even  from  the  economic  point  of  view  it  will 
be  far  cheaper  to  restore  the  countryside  and  re- 
establish agriculture  on  a  paying  basis  than  to 
demolish  and  rebuild  our  towns  till  they  become 
health  resorts.  And  behind  it  all  there  is  this: 
Are  we  satisfied  with  the  trend  of  our  modern 
civilisation?  Are  we  easy  in  our  consciences? 
Have  not  machines,  and  the  demands  of  industry 
run  away  with  our  sense  of  proportion?  Grant 
for  a  moment  that  this  age  marks  the  highest 
water  so  far  of  British  advance.  Are  we  content 
with  that  high-water  mark?  In  health,  happi- 
ness, taste,  beauty,  we  are  surely  far  from  the 
ideal.  I  do  not  say  that  restoration  of  the  land 
will  work  a  miracle;  but  I  do  say  that  nothing 
we  can  do  will  benefit  us  so  potently  as  the  re- 
dress of  balance  between  town  and  country  life. 

We  are  at  the  parting  of  the  ways.  The  war 
has  brought  us  realisation  and  opportunity.  We 
can  close  our  eyes  again  and  drift,  or  we  can  move 
fonvard  under  the  star  of  a  new  ideal.  The  prin- 
ciple which  alone  preserves  the  sanity  of  nations 
is  the  principle  of  balance.  Not  even  the  most 
enraged  defender  of  our  present  condition  will 
dare  maintain  that  we  have  followed  out  that 
principle.    The  scales  are  loaded  in  favour  of  the 

242 


THE   LAND,   1918 

towns,  till  they  almost  touch  earth;  unless  our 
eyes  are  cleared  to  see  that,  unless  our  will  is 
moved  to  set  it  right,  we  shall  bump  the  ground 
before  another  two  decades  have  slipped  away, 
and  in  the  mud  shall  stay,  an  invitation  to  any 
trampUng  heel. 

I  have  tried  to  indicate  general  measures  and 
considerations  vital  to  the  resettlement  of  the 
land,  conscious  that  some  of  my  readers  will  have 
forgotten  more  than  I  know,  and  that  what  could 
be  said  would  fill  volumes.  But  the  thought 
which,  of  all  others,  I  have  wished  to  convey  is 
this:  Without  vision  we  perish.  Without  appre- 
hension of  danger  and  ardour  for  salvation  in  the 
great  body  of  this  people  there  is  no  hope  of  any- 
thing save  a  momentary  spurt,  which  will  die 
away,  and  leave  us  plodding  down  the  hill.  There 
are  two  essentials.  The  farmer — and  that  means 
every  cultivator  of  the  land — must  have  faith  in 
the  vital  importance  of  his  work  and  in  the 
possibility  of  success;  the  townsman  must  see  and 
believe  that  the  future  of  the  country,  and  with 
it  his  own  prosperity-,  is  involved  in  the  revival 
of  our  agriculture  and  bound  up  with  our  inde- 
pendence of  ovei-sea  supply.  Without  that  vision 
and  belief  in  the  townsman  the  farmer  will  never 
regain  faith,  and  without  that  faith  of  the  farmer 
agriculture  will  not  revive. 

243 


THE   LAND,   1918 

Statesmen  may  contrive,  reformers  plan,  farm- 
ers struggle  on,  but  if  there  be  not  conviction  in 
the  body  politic,  it  will  be  no  use. 

Resettlement  of  the  land,  and  independence  of 
outside  food  supply,  is  the  only  hope  of  welfare 
and  safety  for  this  country.  Fervently  beheving 
that,  I  have  set  down  these  poor  words. 

1918. 


244 


GROTESQUES 

K.vvr}86v 
I 

The  Angel  Ethereal,  on  his  official  visit  to  the 
Earth  in  1947,  paused  between  the  Bank  and  the 
Stock  Exchange  to  smoke  a  cigarette  and  scruti- 
nise the  passers-by. 

"How  they  swarm,"  he  said,  "and  with  what 
seeming  energy — in  such  an  atmosphere!  Of 
what  can  they  be  made?" 

"Of  money,  sir,"  repHed  his  dragoman;  "in  the 
past,  the  present,  or  the  future.  Stocks  are  boom- 
ing. The  barometer  of  joy  stands  very  high. 
Nothing  Hke  it  has  been  known  for  thirty  years; 
not,  indeed,  since  the  days  of  the  Great  Skirm- 
ish." 

"There  is,  then,  a  connection  between  joy  and 
money?"  remarked  the  Angel,  letting  smoke 
dribble  through  his  chiselled  nostrils. 

"Such  is  the  common  belief;  though  to  prove  it 
might  take  time.  I  will,  however,  endeavour  to 
do  this  if  you  desire  it,  sir." 

"I  certainly  do,"  said  the  Angel;  "for  a  less 
joyous-looking  crowd  I  have  seldom  seen.     Be- 

245 


GROTESQUES 

tween  every  pair  of  brows  there  is  a  furrow,  and 
no  one  whistles." 

"You  do  not  understand/'  returned  his  drago- 
man; "nor  indeed  is  it  surprising,  for  it  is  not  so 
much  the  money  as  the  thought  that  some  day 
you  need  no  longer  make  it  which  causes  joy." 

"If  that  day  is  coming  to  all,"  asked  the  Angel, 
"why  do  they  not  look  joyful?" 

"It  is  not  so  simple  as  that,  sir.  To  the  ma- 
jority of  these  persons  that  day  will  never  come, 
and  many  of  them  know  it — these  are  called 
clerks;  to  some  amongst  the  others,  even,  it  will 
not  come — these  will  be  called  bankrupts;  to  the 
rest  it  will  come,  and  they  will  live  at  Wimble- 
hurst  and  other  islands  of  the  blessed,  when  they 
have  become  so  accustomed  to  making  money 
that  to  cease  making  it  will  be  equivalent  to  bore- 
dom, if  not  torture,  or  when  they  are  so  old  that 
they  can  but  spend  it  in  trying  to  modify  the  dis- 
abihties  of  age." 

"What  price  joy,  then?"  said  the  Angel,  rais- 
ing his  eyebrows.  "For  that,  I  fancy,  is  the  ex- 
pression you  use?" 

"I  perceive,  sir,"  answered  his  dragoman, 
"that  you  have  not  yet  regained  your  under- 
standing of  the  human  being,  and  especially  of 
the  breed  which  inhabits  this  country.  Illusion 
is  what  we  are  after.    Without  our  illusions  we 

246 


GROTESQUES 

might  just  as  well  be  angels  or  Frenchmen,  who 
pursue  at  all  events  to  some  extent  the  sordid 
reality  known  as  'le  plaisir,'  or  enjoyment  of  life. 
In  pursuit  of  illusion  we  go  on  making  money  and 
furrows  in  our  brows,  for  the  process  is  wearing. 
I  speak,  of  course,  of  the  bourgeoisie  or  Patriotic 
classes;  for  the  practice  of  the  Laborious  is  dif- 
ferent, though  their  illusions  are  the  same." 

"How?"  asked  the  Angel  briefly. 

"Why,  sir,  both  hold  the  illusion  that  they  will 
one  day  be  joyful  through  the  possession  of  money; 
but  whereas  the  Patriotic  expect  to  make  it 
through  the  labour  of  the  Laborious,  the  Labori- 
ous expect  to  make  it  through  the  labour  of  the 
Patriotic." 

"Ha,  ha!"  said  the  Angel. 

"Angels  may  laugh,"  replied  his  dragoman, 
"but  it  is  a  matter  to  make  men  weep." 

"You  know  your  own  business  best,"  said  the 
Angel,  "I  suppose." 

"Ah!  sir,  if  we  did,  how  pleasant  it  would  be. 
It  is  frequently  my  fate  to  study  the  countenances 
and  figures  of  the  population,  and  I  find  the  joy 
which  the  pursuit  of  illusion  brings  them  is  in- 
sufficient to  counteract  the  confined,  monotonous 
and  worried  character  of  their  hves." 

"They  are  certainly  very  plain,"  said  the  Angel. 

"They  are,"  sighed  his  dragoman,  "and  get- 
247 


GROTESQUES 

ting  plainer  every  day.  Take  for  instance  that 
one,"  and  he  pointed  to  a  gentleman  going  up  the 
steps.  "Mark  how  he  is  built.  The  top  of  his 
grizzled  head  is  narrow,  the  bottom  of  it  broad. 
His  body  is  short  and  thick  and  square;  his  legs 
even  thicker,  and  his  feet  turn  out  too  much;  the 
general  effect  is  almost  pyramidal.  Again,  take 
this  one,"  and  he  indicated  a  gentleman  coming 
down  the  steps,  "you  could  thread  his  legs  and 
body  through  a  needle's  eye,  but  his  head  would 
defy  you.  Mark  his  boiled  eyes,  his  flashing 
spectacles,  and  the  absence  of  all  hair.  Dispro- 
portion, sir,  has  become  endemic." 

"Can  this  not  be  corrected?"  asked  the  Angel. 

"To  correct  a  thing,"  answered  his  dragoman, 
"you  must  first  be  aware  of  it,  and  these  are  not; 
no  more  than  they  are  aware  that  it  is  dispropor- 
tionate to  spend  six  days  out  of  every  seven  in  a 
counting-house  or  factory.  Man,  sir,  is  the 
creature  of  habit,  and  when  his  habits  are  bad, 
man  is  worse." 

"I  have  a  headache,"  said  the  Angel ;  " the  noise 
is  more  deafening  than  it  was  when  I  was  here 
in  1910." 

"Yes,  sir;  since  then  we  have  had  the  Great 
Skirmish,  an  event  which  furiously  intensified 
money-making.  We,  like  every  other  people, 
have  ever  since  been  obliged  to  cultivate  the  art 

248 


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GROTESQUES 

of  getting  five  out  of  two-and-two.  The  progress 
of  civilisation  has  been  considerably  speeded  up 
thereby,  and  everything  but  man  has  benefited; 
even  horses,  for  they  are  no  longer  overloaded 
and  overdriven  up  Tower  Hill  or  any  other." 

"How  is  that,"  asked  the  Angel,  "if  the  pres- 
sure of  work  is  greater?" 

"Because  they  are  extinct,"  said  his  dragoman; 
"entirely  superseded  by  electric  and  air  traction, 
as  you  see." 

"You  appear  to  be  inimical  to  money,"  the 
Angel  interjected,  with  a  penetrating  look.  "Tell 
me,  would  you  really  rather  own  one  shilling  than 
five  and  sixpence?" 

"Sir,"  repHed  his  dragoman,  "you  are  putting 
the  candidate  before  the  caucus,  as  the  saying  is. 
For  money  is  nothing  but  the  power  to  purchase 
what  one  wants.  You  should  rather  be  inquiring 
what  I  want." 

"Well,  what  do  you?"  said  the  Angel. 

"To  my  thinking,"  answered  his  dragoman, 
"instead  of  endeavouring  to  increase  money  when 
we  found  ourselves  so  very  bankrupt,  we  should 
have  endeavoured  to  decrease  our  wants.  The 
path  of  real  progress,  sir,  is  the  simplification  of 
life  and  desire  till  we  have  dispensed  even  with 
trousers  and  wear  a  single  clean  garment  reach- 
ing to  the  knees;   till  we  are  content  with  exer- 

249 


GROTESQUES 

cising  our  own  limbs  on  the  solid  earth;  the  eating 
of  simple  food  we  have  grown  ourselves;  the  hear- 
ing of  our  own  voices,  and  tunes  on  oaten  straws; 
the  feel  on  our  faces  of  the  sun  and  rain  and  wind ; 
the  scent  of  the  fields  and  woods;  the  homely 
roof,  and  the  comely  wife  unspoiled  by  heels, 
pearls,  and  powder;  the  domestic  animals  at 
play,  wild  birds  singing,  and  children  brought  up 
to  colder  water  than  their  fathers.  It  should  have 
been  our  business  to  pursue  health  till  we  no  longer 
needed  the  interior  of  the  chemist's  shop,  the  op- 
tician's store,  the  hairdresser's,  the  corset-maker's, 
the  thousand  and  one  emporiums  which  patch  and 
prink  us,  promoting  our  fancies  and  disguising 
the  ravages  which  modern  life  makes  in  our  fig- 
ures. Our  ambition  should  have  been  to  need  so 
little  that,  with  our  present  scientific  knowledge, 
we  should  have  been  able  to  produce  it  very  eas- 
ily and  quickly,  and  have  had  abundant  leisure 
and  sound  nerves  and  bodies  wherewith  to  enjoy 
nature,  art,  and  the  domestic  affections.  The 
tragedy  of  man,  sir,  is  his  senseless  and  insatiate 
curiosity  and  greed,  together  with  his  incurable 
habit  of  neglecting  the  present  for  the  sake  of  a 
future  which  will  never  come." 

"You  speak  like  a  book,"  said  the  Angel. 

"I  wish  I  did,"  retorted  his  dragoman,  "for  no 
book  I  am  able  to  procure  enjoins  us  to  stop  this 

250 


i 


GROTESQUES 

riot,  and  betake  ourselves  to  the  pleasurable 
simplicity  which  alone  can  save  us." 

''You  would  be  bored  stiff  in  a  week/'  said  the 
Angel. 

"We  should,  sir,"  replied  his  dragoman,  "be- 
cause from  our  schooldays  we  are  brought  up  to 
be  acquisitive,  competitive,  and  restless.  Con- 
sider the  baby  in  the  perambulator,  absorbed  in 
contemplating  the  heavens  and  sucking  its  own 
thumb.    Existence,  sir,  should  be  like  that." 

"A  beautiful  metaphor,"  said  the  Angel. 

"As  it  is,  we  do  but  skip  upon  the  hearse  of 
life." 

"You  would  appear  to  be  of  those  whose  motto 
is:  'Try  never  to  leave  things  as  you  find  them,' " 
observed  the  Angel. 

"Ah,  sir!"  responded  his  dragoman,  with  a 
sad  smile,  "  the  part  of  a  dragoman  is  rather  ever 
to  tr}'  and  find  things  where  he  leaves  them." 

"Talking  of  that,"  said  the  Angel  dreamily, 
"when  I  was  here  in  1910,  I  bought  some  Mar- 
coni's for  the  rise.    What  are  they  at  now?" 

"I  cannot  tell  j^ou,"  replied  his  dragoman  in  a 
deprecating  voice,  "but  this  I  will  say:  Inventors 
are  not  only  the  benefactors  but  the  curses  of 
mankind,  and  will  be  so  long  as  we  do  not  find 
a  way  of  adapting  their  discoveries  to  our  ver}'- 
limited  digestive  powers.    The  chronic  dyspepsia 

251 


GROTESQUES 

of  our  civilisation,  due  to  the  attempt  to  swallow 
every  pabulum  which  ingenuity  puts  before  it, 
is  so  violent  that  I  sometimes  wonder  whether 
we  shaU  survive  until  your  visit  in  1984." 

"Ah!"  said  the  Angel,  pricking  his  ears;  "you 
really  think  there  is  a  chance?" 

"  I  do  indeed,"  his  dragoman  answered  gloomily. 
"Life  is  now  one  long  telephone  call — and  what's 
it  all  about  ?  A  tour  in  darkness !  A  rattling  of 
wheels  under  a  sky  of  smoke!  A  never-ending 
game  of  poker!" 

"Confess,"  said  the  Angel,  "that  you  have 
eaten  something  which  has  not  agreed  with  you?" 

"It  is  so,"  answered  his  dragoman;  "I  have 
eaten  of  modernity,  the  damndest  dish  that  was 
ever  set  to  lips.  Look  at  those  fellows,"  he  went 
on,  "busy  as  ants  from  nine  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing to  seven  in  the  evening.  And  look  at  their 
wives!" 

"Ah!  yes,"  said  the  Angel  cheerily;  "let  us 
look  at  their  wives,"  and  with  three  strokes  of 
his  wings  he  passed  to  Oxford  Street. 

"Look  at  them!"  repeated  his  dragoman, 
"busy  as  ants  from  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning 
to  five  in  the  evening." 

"Plain  is  not  the  word  for  them"  said  the 
Angel  sadly.  "What  are  they  after,  running  in 
and  out  of  these  shop-holes?" 

252 


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GROTESQUES 

"Illusion,  sir.  The  romance  of  business  there, 
the  romance  of  commerce  here.  They  have  got 
into  these  habits  and,  as  you  know,  it  is  so  much 
easier  to  get  in  than  to  get  out.  Would  you  like 
to  see  one  of  their  homes?" 

"No,  no,"  said  the  Angel,  starting  back  and 
coming  into  contact  with  a  lady's  hat.  "Why  do 
they  have  them  so  large  ?"  he  asked,  with  a  cer- 
tain irritation. 

"In  order  that  they  may  have  them  small  next 
season,"  repHed  his  dragoman.  "The  future,  sir; 
the  future !  The  cycle  of  beauty  and  eternal  hope, 
and,  incidentally,  the  good  of  trade.  Grasp  that 
phrase  and  you  will  have  no  need  for  further  in- 
quiry, and  probably  no  inclination." 

"One  could  get  American  sweets  in  here,  I 
guess,"  said  the  Angel,  entering. 

II 

"And  where  would  you  wish  to  go  to-day, 
sir?"  asked  his  dragoman  of  the  Angel  who  was 
moving  his  head  from  side  to  side  like  a  drome- 
dary in  the  Haymarket. 

"I  should  Hke,"  the  Angel  answered,  "to  go 
into  the  country." 

"The  country  !"  returned  his  dragoman,  doubt- 
fully.   "You  will  find  very  Httle  to  see  there." 

253 


GROTESQUES 

"Natheless,"  said  the  Angel;  spreading  his 
wings. 

"These,"  gasped  his  dragoman,  after  a  few 
breathless  minutes,  "are  the  Chilterns — they  will 
serve;  any  part  of  the  country  is  now  the  same. 
Shall  we  descend?" 

Alighting  on  what  seemed  to  be  a  common,  he 
removed  the  cloud  moisture  from  his  brow,  and 
shading  his  eyes  with  his  hand,  stood  peering  into 
the  distance  on  every  side.  "As  I  thought,"  he 
said;  "there  has  been  no  movement  since  I 
brought  the  Prime  here  in  1944;  we  shall  have 
some  difficulty  in  getting  lunch." 

"A  wonderfully  peaceful  spot,"  said  the 
Angel. 

"True,"  said  his  dragoman.  "We  might  fly 
sixty  miles  in  any  direction  and  not  see  a  house 
in  repair." 

"Let  us!"  said  the  Angel.  They  flew  a  hun- 
dred, and  alighted  again. 

"Same  here!"  said  his  dragoman.  "This  is 
Leicestershire.  Note  the  rolling  landscape  of 
wild  pastures." 

"I  am  getting  hungry,"  said  the  Angel.  "Let 
us  fly  again." 

"I  have  told  you,  sir,"  remarked  his  dragoman, 
while  they  were  flying,  "that  we  shall  have  the 
greatest  difliculty  in  finding  any  inhabited  dwel- 

254 


GROTESQUES 

ling  in  the  country.  Had  we  not  better  alight 
at  Blackton  or  Bradleeds?" 

''No/'  said  the  Angel.  "I  have  come  for  a 
day  in  the  fresh  air." 

"Would  bilberries  serve?"  asked  his  dragoman; 
"for  I  see  a  man  gathering  them." 

The  Angel  closed  his  wings,  and  they  dropped 
on  to  a  moor  close  to  an  aged  man. 

"My  worthy  wight,"  said  the  Angel,  "we  are 
hungry.  Would  you  give  us  some  of  your  bil- 
berries?" 

"Wot  oh!"  ejaculated  the  ancient  party; 
"never  'card  yer  comin'.  Been  fly  in'  by  wireless, 
'ave  yer?  Got  an  observer,  I  see,"  he  added, 
jerking  his  grizzled  chin  at  the  dragoman.  "  Strike 
me,  it's  the  good  old  dyes  o'  the  Gryte  Skirmish 
over  agyne." 

"Is  this,"  asked  the  Angel,  whose  mouth  was 
already  black  with  bilberries,  "the  dialect  of  rural 
England?" 

"I  will  interrogate  him,  sir,"  said  his  drago- 
man, "for  in  truth  I  am  at  a  loss  to  account  for 
the  presence  of  a  man  in  the  countrj\"  He  took 
the  old  person  by  his  last  button  and  led  him  a 
httle  apart.  Returning  to  the  Angel,  who  had 
finished  the  bilberries,  he  whispered: 

"It  is  as  I  thought.  This  is  the  sole  survivor 
of  the  soldiers  settled  on  the  land  at  the  conclu- 

255 


GROTESQUES 

sion  of  the  Great  Skirmish.  He  lives  on  berries 
and  birds  who  have  died  a  natural  death." 

"I  fail  to  understand,"  answered  the  Angel. 
"Where  is  all  the  rural  population,  where  the 
mansions  of  the  great,  the  thriving  farmer,  the 
contented  peasant,  the  labourer  about  to  have  his 
minimum  wage,  the  Old,  the  Merrie  England  of 
1910?" 

"That,"  responded  his  dragoman  somewhat 
dramatically,  extending  his  hand  towards  the  old 
man,  ^'that  is  the  rural  population,  and  he  a  cock- 
ney hardened  in  the  Great  Skirmish,  or  he  could 
never  have  stayed  the  course." 

"What !"  said  the  Angel;  "is  no  food  grown  in 
all  this  land!" 

"Not  a  cabbage,"  repHed  his  dragoman;  "not 
a  mustard  and  cress — outside  the  towns,  that  is." 

"I  perceive,"  said  the  Angel,  "that  I  have  lost 
touch  with  much  that  is  of  interest.  Give  me,  I 
pray,  a  brief  sketch  of  the  agricultural  move- 
ment." 

"Why,  sir,"  replied  his  dragoman,  "the  agri- 
cultural movement  in  this  country  since  the  days 
of  the  Great  Skirmish,  when  all  were  talking  of 
resettling  the  land,  may  be  summed  up  in  two 
words:  'Town  Expansion.'  In  order  to  make  this 
clear  to  you,  however,  I  must  remind  you  of  the 
poHtical  currents  of  the  past  thirty  years.    You 

256 


[ 


GROTESQUES 

will  not  recollect  that  during  the  Great  Skinnish, 
beneath  the  seeming  absence  of  politics,  there 
were  germinating  the  Parties  of  the  future.  A 
secret  but  resolute  intention  was  forming  in  all 
minds  to  immolate  those  who  had  played  any  part 
in  politics  before  and  during  the  important  world- 
tragedy  which  was  then  being  enacted,  especially 
such  as  continued  to  hold  portfolios,  or  persisted 
in  asking  questions  in  the  House  of  Commons,  as 
it  was  then  called.  It  was  not  that  people  held 
them  to  be  responsible,  but  nerves  required  sooth- 
ing, and  there  is  no  anodyne,  as  you  know,  sir, 
equal  to  human  sacrifice.  The  politician  was,  as 
one  may  say — 'off.'  No  sooner,  of  course,  was 
peace  declared  than  the  first  real  General  Election 
was  held,  and  it  was  with  a  certain  chagrin  that 
the  old  Parties  found  themselves  in  the  soup. 
The  Parties  which  had  been  forming  beneath  the 
surface  swept  the  country;  one  called  itself  the 
Patriotic,  and  was  called  by  its  opponents  the 
Prussian  Party;  the  other  called  itself  the  La- 
borious, and  was  called  by  its  opponents  the 
Loafing  Party.  Their  representatives  were  nearly 
all  new  men.  In  the  first  flush  of  peace,  with 
which  the  human  mind  ever  associates  plenty, 
they  came  out  on  such  an  even  keel  that  no  Gov- 
ernment could  pass  anything  at  all.  Since,  how- 
ever, it  was  imperative  to  find  the  interest  on  a 

257 


GROTESQUES 

National  Debt  of  £8,000,000,000,  a  further  elec- 
tion was  needed.  This  tinie,  though  the  word 
Peace  remained,  the  word  Plenty  had  already 
vanished;  and  the  Laborious  Party,  which,  hav- 
ing much  less  to  tax,  felt  that  it  could  tax  more 
freely,  found  itself  in  an  overwhelming  majority. 
You  wdll  be  curious  to  hear,  sir,  of  what  elements 
this  Party  was  composed.  Its  solid  bulk  were 
the  returned  soldiers,  and  the  other  manual 
workers  of  the  country;  but  to  this  main  body 
there  was  added  a  rump,  of  pundits,  men  of  ex- 
cellent intentions,  brains,  and  principles,  such  as 
in  old  days  had  been  known  as  Radicals  and 
advanced  Liberals.  These  had  joined  out  of 
despair,  feeling  that  otherwise  their  very  existence 
was  jeopardised.  To  this  collocation — and  to  one 
or  two  other  circumstances,  as  you  will  presently 
see,  sir — the  doom  of  the  land  must  be  traced. 
Now,  the  Laborious  Party,  apart  from  its  rump, 
on  which  it  would  or  could  not  sit — we  shall  never 
know  now — had  views  about  the  resettlement 
of  the  land  not  far  divergent  from  those  held  by 
the  Patriotic  Party,  and  they  proceeded  to  put 
a  scheme  into  operation,  which,  for  perhaps  a 
year,  seemed  to  have  a  prospect  of  success. 
Many  returned  soldiers  were  established  in  fa- 
vourable localities,  and  there  was  even  a  dis- 
position to  place  the  country  on  a  self-sufficing 

258 


GROTESQUES 

basis  in  regard  to  food.  But  they  had  not  been 
in  power  eighteen  months  when  their  rump^ 
which,  as  I  have  told  you,  contained  nearly  all 
their  principles — had  a  severe  attack  of  these. 
'Free  Trade,' — which,  say  what  you  will,  follows 
the  line  of  least  resistance  and  is  based  on  the 
'good  of  trade' — was,  they  perceived,  endangered, 
and  they  began  to  agitate  against  bonuses  on  corn 
and  preferential  treatment  of  a  pampered  indus- 
try. The  bonus  on  com  was  in  consequence  re- 
scinded in  1924,  and  in  lieu  thereof  the  system 
of  small  holdings  was  extended — on  paper.  At 
the  same  time  the  somewhat  stunning  taxation 
which  had  been  placed  upon  the  wealthy  began 
to  cause  the  break-up  of  landed  estates.  As  the 
general  bankruptcy  and  exhaustion  of  Europe  be- 
came more  and  more  apparent  the  notion  of 
danger  from  future  war  began  to  seem  increas- 
ingly remote,  and  the  'good  of  trade'  became 
again  the  one  object  before  every  British  eye. 
Food  from  overseas  was  cheapening  once  more. 
The  inevitable  occurred.  Country  mansions  be- 
came a  drug  in  the  market,  farmers  farmed  at  a 
loss;  small  holders  went  bust  daily,  and  emigrated; 
agricultural  labourers  sought  the  towns.  In  1926 
the  Laborious  Party,  who  had  carried  the  taxa- 
tion of  their  opponents  to  a  pitch  beyond  the 
power  of  human  endurance,  got  what  the  racy 

259 


GROTESQUES 

call  'the  knock/  and  the  four  years  which  fol- 
lowed witnessed  the  bitterest  internecine  struggle 
within  the  memory  of  every  journalist.  In  the 
course  of  this  strife  emigration  increased  and  the 
land  emptied  rapidly.  The  final  victory  of  the 
Laborious  Party,  in  1930,  saw  them,  still  pro- 
pelled by  their  rump,  committed,  among  other 
things,  to  a  pure  town  policy.  They  have  never 
been  out  of  power  since;  the  result  you  see. 
Food  is  now  entirely  brought  from  overseas, 
largely  by  submarine  and  air  service,  in  tabloid 
form,  and  expanded  to  its  original  proportions  on 
arrival  by  an  ingenious  process  discovered  by  a 
German.  The  country  is  now  used  only  as  a 
subject  for  sentimental  poets,  and  to  fly  over,  or 
by  lovers  on  bicycles  at  week-ends." 

"Mon  Dieu!^'  said  the  Angel  thoughtfully. 
''To  me,  indeed,  it  seems  that  this  must  have 
been  a  case  of:  'Oh !    What  a  surprise !'  " 

"You  are  not  mistaken,  sir,"  replied  his  drago- 
man; "people  still  open  their  mouths  over  this 
consummation.  It  is  pre-eminently  an  instance 
of  what  will  happen  sometimes  when  you  are  not 
looking,  even  to  the  English,  who  have  been  most 
fortunate  in  this  respect.  For  you  must  remem- 
ber that  all  Parties,  even  the  Pundits,  have  al- 
ways declared  that  rural  life  and  all  that,  don't 
you  know,  is  most  necessary,  and  have  ever  as- 

260 


GROTESQUES 

serted  that  they  were  fostering  it  to  the  utmost. 
But  they  forgot  to  remember  that  our  circum- 
stances, traditions,  education,  and  vested  inter- 
ests so  favoured  town  life  and  the  'good  of  trade' 
that  it  required  a  real  and  unparliamentary  effort 
not  to  take  that  line  of  least  resistance.  In  fact, 
we  have  here  a  very  good  example  of  what  I  told 
you  the  other  day  was  our  most  striking  char- 
acteristic— never  knowing  where  we  are  tUl  after 
the  event.  But  what  with  fog  and  principles, 
how  can  you  expect  we  should?  Better  be  a 
little  town  bhghter  with  no  constitution  and  high 
political  principles,  than  your  mere  healthy  coun- 
try product  of  a  pampered  industry.  But  you 
have  not  yet  seen  the  other  side  of  the  moon." 

"To  what  do  you  refer?"  asked  the  Angel. 

"Why,  sir,  to  the  glorious  expansion  of  the 
towns.  To  this  I  shall  introduce  you  to-morrow, 
if  such  is  your  pleasure." 

"Is  London,  then,  not  a  town?"  asked  the  An- 
gel pla}d"ully. 

" London ? "  cried  his  dragoman ;  "a  mere  plea- 
sure village.  To  which  real  town  shall  I  take 
you  ?    Liverchester  ? ' ' 

"Anywhere,"  said  the  Angel,  "where  I  can  get 
a  good  dinner."  So  saying,  he  paid  the  rural 
population  with  a  smile  and  spread  his  wings. 


261 


GROTESQUES 

III 

"The  night  is  yet  young,"  said  the  Angel 
Ethereal  on  leaving  the  White  Heart  Hostel  at 
Liverchester,  "and  I  have  had  perhaps  too  much 
to  eat.    Let  us  walk  and  see  the  town." 

"As  you  will,  sir,"  replied  his  dragoman; 
"there  is  no  difference  between  night  and  day, 
now  that  they  are  using  the  tides  for  the  pro- 
vision of  electric  power." 

The  Angel  took  a  note  of  the  fact.  "Wliat  do 
they  manufacture  here?"  he  asked. 

"The  entire  town,"  returned  his  dragoman, 
"which  now  extends  from  the  old  Liverpool  to 
the  old  Manchester  (as  indeed  its  name  implies), 
is  occupied  with  expanding  the  tabloids  of  food 
which  are  landed  in  its  port  from  the  new  worlds. 
This  and  the  town  of  Brister,  reaching  from  the 
old  Bristol  to  the  old  Gloucester,  have  had  the 
monopoly  of  food  expansion  for  the  United  King- 
dom since  1940." 

"By  what  means  precisely?"  asked  the  Angel. 

"Congenial  environment  and  bacteriology,"  re- 
sponded his  dragoman.  They  walked  for  some 
time  in  silence,  flying  a  Httle  now  and  then  in  the 
dirtier  streets,  before  the  Angel  spoke  again: 

"It  is  curious,"  he  said,  "but  I  perceive  no 
difference  between  this  town  and  those  I  remem- 

262 


GROTESQUES 

ber  on  my  visit  in  1910,  save  that  the  streets 
are  better  lighted,  which  is  not  an  unmixed  joy, 
for  they  are  dirty  and  full  of  people  whose  faces 
do  not  please  me." 

"Ah!  sir,"  rephed  his  dragoman,  "it  is  too 
much  to  expect  that  the  wonderful  darkness  which 
prevailed  at  the  time  of  the  Great  Skirmish  could 
endure;  then,  indeed,  one  could  indulge  the  hope 
that  the  houses  were  all  built  by  Wren,  and  the 
people  all  clean  and  beautiful.  There  is  no 
poetry  now." 

"No!"  said  the  Angel,  sniffing,  "but  there  is 
atmosphere,  and  it  is  not  agreeable." 

"Mankind,  when  herded  together,  will  smell," 
answered  his  dragoman.  "You  cannot  avoid  it. 
What  with  old  clothes,  patchouli,  petrol,  fried 
fish  and  the  fag,  those  five  essentials  of  human 
life,  the  atmosphere  of  Turner  and  Corot  are  as 
nothing." 

"But  do  you  not  run  your  towns  to  please 
yourselves?"  said  the  Angel. 

"  Oh,  no,  sir !  The  resistance  would  be  dread- 
ful. They  run  us.  You  see,  they  are  so  very 
big,  and  have  such  prestige.  Besides,"  he  added, 
"even  if  we  dared,  we  should  not  know  how. 
For,  though  some  great  and  good  man  once 
brought  us  pl^ne-trees,  we  English  are  above  get- 
ting the  best  out  of  life  and  its  conditions,  and 

263 


GROTESQUES 

despise  light  Frenchified  taste.  Notice  the  prin- 
ciple which  governs  this  twenty-mile  residential 
stretch.  It  was  intended  to  be  light,  but  how 
earnest  it  has  all  turned  out !  You  can  tell  at  a 
glance  that  these  dwellings  belong  to  the  species 
'house'  and  yet  are  individual  houses,  just  as  a 
man  belongs  to  the  species  'man,'  and  yet,  as 
they  say,  has  a  soul  of  his  own.  This  principle 
was  introduced  off  the  Avenue  Road  a  few  years 
before  the  Great  Skirmish,  and  is  now  universal. 
Any  person  who  lives  in  a  house  identical  with 
another  house  is  not  known.  Has  anything 
heavier  and  more  conscientious  ever  been 
seen?" 

"Does  this  principle  also  apply  to  the  houses 
of  the  working-man?"  inquired  the  Angel. 

"Hush,  sir!"  returned  his  dragoman,  looking 
round  him  nervously;  "a  dangerous  word.  The 
LABORIOUS  dwell  in  palaces  built  after  the  design 
of  an  architect  called  Jerr>",  with  communal 
kitchens  and  baths." 

"Do  they  use  them?"  asked  the  Angel  with 
some  interest. 

"Not  as  yet,  indeed,"  replied  his  dragoman; 
"but  I  beheve  they  are  thinking  of  it.  As  you 
know,  sir,  it  takes  time  to  introduce  a  custom. 
Thirty  years  is  but  as  yesterday." 

"The  Japanese  wash  daily,"  mused  the  Angel. 
264 


GROTESQUES 

"Not  a  Christian  nation/'  replied  his  drago- 
man; "nor  have  they  the  dirt  to  contend  with 
which  is  conspicuous  here.  Let  us  do  justice  to 
the  discouragement  which  dogs  the  abkitions  of 
such  as  know  they  will  soon  be  dirty  again.  It 
was  confidently  supposed,  at  the  time  of  the  Great 
Skirmish,  which  introduced  military  discipline 
and  so  entirely  abolished  caste,  that  the  habit  of 
washing  would  at  last  become  endemic  through- 
out the  whole  population.  Judge  how  surprised 
were  we  of  that  day  when  the  facts  turned  out 
otherwise.  Instead  of  the  Laborious  washing 
more,  the  Patriotic  washed  less.  It  may  have 
been  the  higher  price  of  soap,  or  merely  that 
human  life  was  not  very  highly  regarded  at  the 
time.  We  cannot  tell.  But  not  until  militaiy 
discipline  disappeared,  and  caste  was  restored, 
which  happened  the  moment  peace  returned,  did 
the  survivors  of  the  Patriotic  begin  to  wash  im- 
moderately again,  leaving  the  Laborious  to  pre- 
serve a  level  more  suited  to  democracy." 

"Talking  of  levels,"  said  the  Angel;  "is  the 
populace  increasmg  in  stature?" 

"Oh,  no,  indeed!"  responded  his  dragoman; 
"the  latest  statistics  give  a  diminution  of  one 
inch  and  a  half  during  the  past  generation." 

"And  in  longevity?"  asked  the  Angel. 

"As  to  that,  babies  and  old  people  are  now  com- 
265 


GROTESQUES 

munally  treated,  and  all  those  diseases  which  are 
curable  by  lymph  are  well  in  hand." 

"Do  people,  then,  not  die?" 

"Oh,  yes,  sir!  About  as  often  as  before. 
There  are  new  complaints  which  redress  the 
balance." 

"And  what  are  those?" 

"A  group  of  diseases  called  for  convenience 
Scienticitis.  Some  think  they  come  from  the 
present  food  system;  others  from  the  accumula- 
tion of  lymphs  in  the  body;  others,  again,  regard 
them  as  the  result  of  dwelling  on  the  subject — 
a  kind  of  hypnotisation  by  death ;  a  fourth  school 
hold  them  traceable  to  town  air;  while  a  fifth 
consider  them  a  mere  manifestation  of  jealousy 
on  the  part  of  Nature.  They  date,  one  may  say, 
with  confidence,  from  the  time  of  the  Great  Skir- 
mish, when  men's  minds  were  turned  with  some 
anxiety  to  the  question  of  statistics,  and  babies 
were  at  a  premium." 

"Is  the  population,  then,  much  larger?" 

"You  mean  smaller,  sir,  do  you  not?  Not  per- 
haps so  much  smaller  as  you  might  expect;  but 
it  is  still  nicely  down.  You  see,  the  Patriotic 
Party,  including  even  those  Pontificals  whose  pri- 
vate practice  most  discouraged  all  that  sort  of 
thing,  began  at  once  to  urge  propagation.  But 
their  propaganda  was,  as  one  may  say,  brain- 

266 


GROTESQUES 

spun;  and  at  once  bumped  up — pardon  the  collo- 
quialism— against  the  economic  situation.  The 
existing  babies,  it  is  true,  were  saved ;  the  trouble 
was  rather  that  the  babies  began  not  to  exist. 
The  same,  of  course,  obtained  in  every  European 
country,  with  the  exception  of  what  was  still, 
in  a  manner  of  speaking,  Russia;  and  if  that 
country  had  but  retained  its  homogeneity,  it 
would  soon  by  sheer  numbers  have  swamped  the 
rest  of  Europe.  Fortunately,  perhaps,  it  did  not 
remain  homogeneous.  An  incurable  reluctance 
to  make  food  for  cannon  and  impose  further  bur- 
dens on  selves  already  weighted  to  the  ground  by 
taxes,  developed  in  the  peoples  of  each  Central 
and  Western  land;  and  in  the  years  from  1920  to 
1930  the  downward  curve  was  so  alarming  in 
Great  Britain  that  if  the  Patriotic  Party  could 
only  have  kept  office  long  enough  at  a  time  they 
would,  no  doubt,  have  enforced  conception  at 
the  point  of  the  bayonet.  Luckily  or  unluckily, 
according  to  taste,  they  did  not;  and  it  was  left 
for  more  natural  causes  to  produce  the  inevitable 
reaction  which  began  to  set  in  after  1930,  when 
the  population  of  the  United  Kingdom  had  been 
reduced  to  some  twenty-five  millions.  About 
that  time  commerce  revived.  The  question  of 
the  land  had  been  settled  by  its  unconscious 
abandonment,  and  people  began  to  see  before 

267 


GROTESQUES 

them  again  the  possibility  of  supporting  faniiHes. 
The  ingrained  disposition  of  men  and  women  to 
own  pets,  together  with  'the  good  of  trade/  be- 
gan once  more  to  have  its  way;  and  the  popula- 
tion rose  rapidly.  A  renewed  joy  in  life,  and  the 
assurance  of  not  having  to  pay  the  piper,  caused 
the  slums,  as  they  used  to  be  called,  to  swarm 
once  more,  and  filled  the  communal  creches. 
And  had  it  not  been  for  the  fact  that  any  one 
with  physical  strength,  or  love  of  fresh  air, 
promptly  emigrated  to  the  Sister  Nations  on 
attaining  the  age  of  eighteen  we  might  now,  sir, 
be  witnessing  an  overcrowding  equal  to  that  of 
the  times  before  the  Great  Skirmish.  The  move- 
ment is  receiving  an  added  impetus  with  the  ap- 
proach of  the  Greater  Skirmish  between  the  Teu- 
tons and  Mongolians,  for  it  is  expected  that  trade 
will  boom  and  much  wealth  accme  to  those  coun- 
tries which  are  privileged  to  look  on  with  equa- 
nimity at  this  great  new  drama,  as  the  editors 
are  already  calling  it." 

"In  all  this,"  said  the  Angel  iEthereal,  "I  per- 
ceive something  rather  sordid." 

"Sir,"  replied  his  dragoman  earnestly,  "your 
remark  is  characteristic  of  the  sky,  where  people 
are  not  made  of  flesh  and  blood;  pay,  I  beheve, 
no  taxes;  and  have  no  experience  of  the  devas- 
tating consequences  of  war.    I  recollect  so  well 

268 


GROTESQUES 

when  I  was  a  young  man,  before  the  Great  Skir- 
mish began,  and  even  when  it  had  been  going  on 
several  years,  how  ghbly  the  leaders  of  opinion 
talked  of  human  progress,  and  how  blind  they 
were  to  the  fact  that  it  has  a  certain  connection 
with  environment.  You  must  remember  that 
ever  since  that  large  and,  as  some  still  think, 
rather  tragic  occurrence  environment  has  been 
very  dicky  and  Utopia  not  unrelated  to  thin  air. 
It  has  been  perceived  time  and  again  that  the 
leaders  of  public  opinion  are  not  always  con- 
firmed by  events.  The  new  world,  which  was  so 
sapiently  prophesied  by  rhetoricians,  is  now  nigh 
thirty  years  old,  and,  for  my  part,  I  confess  to 
surprise  that  it  is  not  worse  than  it  actually  is. 
I  am  moralising,  I  fear,  however,  for  these  subur- 
ban buildings  grie\^ously  encourage  the  philo- 
sophic habit.  Rather  let  us  barge  along  and 
see  the  Laborious  at  their  labours,  which  are 
never  interrupted  now  by  the  mere  accident  of 
night." 

The  Angel  increased  his  speed  till  they  alighted 
amid  a  forest  of  tall  chimneys,  whose  sirens  were 
singing  like  a  watch  of  nightingales. 

"There  is  a  shift  on,"  said  the  dragoman. 
"Stand  here,  sir;  we  shall  see  them  passing  in 
and  out." 

The  Laborious  were  not  hurrydng,  and  went  by 
20!) 


GROTESQUES 

uttering  the  words:  "Cheer  oh!"  "So  long!" 
and  "Wot  abaht  it!" 

The  Angel  contemplated  them  for  a  time  be- 
fore he  said :  "It  comes  back  to  me  now  how  they 
used  to  talk  when  they  were  doing  up  my  flat 
on  my  visit  in  1910." 

"  Give  me,  I  pray,  an  imitation,"  said  his  drago- 
man. 

The  Angel  struck  the  attitude  of  one  painting 
a  door.  "William,"  he  said,  rendering  those 
voices  of  the  past,  "what  money  are  you  ob- 
taining?" 

"Not  half,  Alfred." 

"If  that  is  so,  indeed,  WiUiam,  should  you  not 
rather  leave  your  tools  and  obtain  better  money  ? 
I  myself  am  doing  this." 

"Not  half,  Alfred." 

"Round  the  comer  I  can  obtain  more  money  by 
working  for  fewer  hours.  In  my  opinion  there  is 
no  use  in  working  for  less  money  when  you  can 
obtain  more.    How  much  does  Henry  obtain?" 

"Not  half,  Alfred." 

"What  I  am  now  obtaining  is,  in  my  opinion, 
no  use  at  all." 

"Not  half,  Alfred." 

Here  the  Angel  paused,  and  let  his  hand  move 
for  one  second  in  a  masterly  exhibition  of  activity. 

"It  is  doubtful,  sir,"  said  his  dragoman, 
270 


GROTESQUES 

"'whether  you  would  be  permitted  to  dilute  your 
conversation  with  so  much  labour  in  these  days; 
the  rules  are  very  strict." 

"Are  there,  then,  still  Trades  Unions?"  asked 
the  Angel. 

"No,  indeed,"  rephed  his  dragoman;  "but  there 
are  Committees.  That  habit  which  grew  up  at 
the  time  of  the  Great  Skirmish  has  flourished  ever 
since.  Statistics  reveal  the  fact  that  there  are 
practically  no  adults  in  the  country  between  the 
ages  of  nineteen  and  fifty  who  are  not  sitting  on 
Committees.  At  the  time  of  the  Great  Skirmish 
all  Committees  were  nominally  active;  they  are 
now  both  active  and  passive.  In  every  industiy, 
enterprise,  or  walk  of  life  a  small  active  Com- 
mittee directs;  and  a  large  passive  Committee, 
formed  of  everybody  else,  resists  that  direction. 
And  it  is  safe  to  say  that  the  Passive  Commit- 
tees are  active  and  the  Active  Committees  pas- 
sive; in  this  way  no  inordinate  amount  of  work  is 
done.  Indeed,  if  the  tongue  and  the  electric 
button  had  not  usurped  practically  aU  the  func- 
tions of  the  human  hand,  the  State  would  have 
some  difficulty  in  getting  its  boots  blacked.  But 
a  ha'poth  of  visualisation  is  worth  three  lectures 
at  ten  shillings  the  stall,  so  enter,  sir,  and  see  for 
yourself." 

Saying  this,  he  pushed  open  the  door. 
271 


GROTESQUES 

In  a  shed,  which  extended  beyond  the  illimit- 
able range  of  the  Angel's  eye,  machinery  and 
tongues  were  engaged  in  a  contest  which  filled 
the  ozone  with  an  incomparable  hum.  Men  and 
women  in  profusion  were  leaning  against  walls  or 
the  pillars  on  which  the  great  roof  was  supported, 
assiduously  pressing  buttons.  The  scent  of  ex- 
panding food  revived  the  Angel's  appetite. 

"I  shall  require  supper,"  he  said  dreamily. 

"By  all  means,  sir,"  replied  his  dragoman; 
"after  work — play.  It  will  afford  you  an  oppor- 
tunity to  witness  modern  pleasures  in  our  great 
industrial  centres.  But  what  a  blessing  is  elec- 
tric power!"  he  added.  "Consider  these  lilies  of 
the  town,  they  toil  not,  neither  do  they  spin " 

"Yet  Solomon  in  all  his  glory,"  chipped  in  the 
Angel  eagerly,  "had  not  their  appearance,  you 
bet." 

"Indeed  they  are  an  insouciant  crowd,"  mused 
his  dragoman.  "How  tinkling  is  their  laughter! 
The  habit  dates  from  the  days  of  the  Great  Skir- 
mish, when  nothing  but  laughter  would  meet  the 
case." 

"Tell  me,"  said  the  Angel,  "are  the  English 
satisfied  at  last  with  their  industrial  conditions, 
and  generally  with  their  mode  of  life  in  these  ex- 
panded towns?" 

"Satisfied?  Oh  dear,  no.  sir!  But  you  know 
272 


GROTESQUES 

what  it  is:  They  are  obHged  to  wait  for  each 
fresh  development  before  they  can  see  what  they 
have  to  counteract;  and,  since  that  great  creative 
force,  'the  good  of  trade/  is  always  a  little  stronger 
than  the  forces  of  criticism  and  reform,  each  de- 
velopment carries  them  a  little  further  on  the 

road  to " 

"Hell!    How  hungiy  I  am  again ! "  exclaimed 
the  Angel.     "Let  us  sup  !" 


IV 

"Laughter,"  said  the  Angel  ^Ethereal,  applying 
his  wineglass  to  his  nose,  "has  ever  distinguished 
mankind  from  all  other  animals  with  the  exception 
of  the  dog.  And  the  power  of  laughing  at  noth- 
ing distinguishes  man  even  from  that  quadruped." 

"I  would  go  further,  sir,"  returned  his  drago- 
man, "and  say  that  the  power  of  laughing  at  that 
which  should  make  him  sick  distinguishes  the 
Englishman  from  all  other  varieties  of  man  ex- 
cept the  negro.  Kindly  observe!"  He  rose,  and 
taking  the  Angel  by  the  waist,  fox-trotted  him 
among  the  little  tables. 

"See!"  he  said,  indicating  the  other  supper- 
takers  with  a  circular  movement  of  his  beard, 
"they  are  consumed  with  laughter.  The  habit  of 
fox-trotting  in  the  interv^als  of  eating  has  been 

273 


GROTESQUES 

known  ever  since  it  was  introduced  by  Amer- 
icans a  generation  ago,  at  the  beginning  of  the 
Great  Skirmish,  when  that  important  people  had 
as  yet  nothing  else  to  do;  but  it  still  causes  laugh- 
ter in  this  country.  A  distressing  custom,"  he 
wheezed,  as  they  resumed  their  seats,  "for  not 
only  does  it  disturb  the  oyster,  but  it  compels  one 
to  think  lightly  of  the  human  species.  Not  that 
one  requires  much  compulsion,"  he  added,  "now 
that  music-hall,  cinema,  and  restaurant  are  con- 
joined. What  a  happy  idea  that  was  of  Berlin's, 
and  how  excellent  for  business!  Kindly  glance 
for  a  moment — ^but  not  more — at  the  left-hand 
stage." 

The  Angel  turned  his  eyes  towards  a  cinemato- 
graph film  which  was  being  displayed.  He  con- 
templated it  for  the  moment  without  speaking. 

"I  do  not  comprehend,"  he  said  at  last,  "why 
the  person  with  the  arrested  moustaches  is  hitting 
so  many  people  with  that  sack  of  flour." 

"To  cause  amusement,  sir,"  replied  his  drago- 
man.   "Look  at  the  laughing  faces  around  you." 

"But  it  is  not  funny,"  said  the  Angel. 

"No,  indeed,"  returned  his  dragoman.  "Be  so 
good  as  to  carry  your  eyes  now  to  the  stage  on  the 
right,  but  not  for  long.    What  do  you  see?" 

"I  see  a  very  red-nosed  man  beating  a  very 
white-nosed  man  about  the  body." 

274 


GROTESQUES 

"It  is  a  real  scream,  is  it  not?" 

"No,"  said  the  Angel  drily.  "Does  nothing 
else  ever  happen  on  these  stages?" 

"Nothing.    Stay !    Revues  happen ! " 

"What  are  revues f^^  asked  the  Angel. 

"Criticisms  of  life,  sir,  as  it  would  be  seen  by 
persons  inebriated  on  various  intoxicants." 

"They  should  be  joyous." 

"They  are  accomited  so,"  his  dragoman  re- 
plied; "but  for  my  part,  I  prefer  to  criticise  life 
for  myself,  especially  when  I  am  drunk." 

"Are  there  no  plays,  no  operas?"  asked  the 
Angel  from  behind  his  glass. 

"  Not  in  the  old  and  proper  sense  of  these  words. 
They  disappeared  towards  the  end  of  the  Great 
Skirmish." 

"What  food  for  the  mind  is  there,  then?" 
asked  the  Angel,  adding  an  oyster  to  his  collec- 
tion. 

"None  in  pubhc,  sir,  for  it  is  well  recognised, 
and  has  been  ever  since  those  days,  that  laughter 
alone  promotes  business  and  removes  the  thought 
of  death.  You  cannot  recall,  as  I  can,  sir,  the 
continual  stream  which  used  to  issue  from  the- 
atres, music-halls,  and  picture-palaces  in  the  days 
of  the  Great  Skirmish,  nor  the  joviality  of  the 
Strand  and  the  more  expensive  restaurants.  I 
have  often  thought,"  he  added  with  a  touch  of 

275 


GROTESQUES 

philosophy,  "what  a  height  of  civilisation  we 
must  have  reached  to  go  jesting,  as  we  did,  to  the 
Great  Unknown." 

"Is  that  really  what  the  English  did  at  the 
time  of  the  Great  Skirmish?"  asked  the  Angel. 

"It  is,"  repHed  his  dragoman  solemnly. 

^'Then  they  are  a  very  fine  people,  and  I  can 
put  up  with  much  about  them  which  seems  to 
me  distressing." 

"Ah!  sir,  though,  being  an  Englishman,  I  am 
sometimes  inclined  to  disparage  the  EngHsh,  I  am 
yet  convinced  that  you  could  not  fly  a  week's 
journey  and  come  across  another  race  with  such 
a  peculiar  nobihty,  or  such  an  unconquerable 
soul,  if  you  will  forgive  my  using  a  word  whose 
meaning  is  much  disputed.  May  I  tempt  you 
with  a  clam?"  he  added  more  lightly.  "We  now 
have  them  from  America — in  fair  preservation, 
and  very  nasty  they  are,  in  my  opinion." 

The  Angel  took  a  clam. 

"  My  Lord !"  he  said,  after  a  moment  of  deglu- 
tition. 

"Quite  so!"  replied  his  dragoman.  "But 
kindly  glance  at  the  right-hand  stage  again. 
There  is  a  revue  on  now.    What  do  you  see  ?  " 

The  Angel  made  two  holes  with  his  forefingers 
and  thumbs  and,  putting  them  to  his  eyes,  bent 
a  little  forward. 

276 


II 


GROTESQUES 

"Tut,  tut!"  he  said;  "I  see  some  attractive 
young  females  with  very  few  clothes  on,  walking 
up  and  down  in  front  of  what  seem  to  me,  indeed, 
to  be  two  grown-up  men  in  collars  and  jackets 
as  of  little  boys.  What  precise  criticism  of  life 
is  this  conveying?" 

His  dragoman  answered  in  reproachful  accents: 

"Do  you  not  feel,  sir,  from  your  own  sensa- 
tions, how  marvellously  this  informs  one  of  the 
secret  passions  of  mankind?  Is  there  not  in  it 
a  striking  revelation  of  the  natural  tendencies  of 
the  male  population?  Remark  how  the  whole 
audience,  including  your  august  self,  is  leaning 
forward  and  looking  through  their  thumb-holes?" 

The  Angel  sat  back  hurriedly. 

"True,"  he  said,  "I  was  carried  away.  But 
that  is  not  the  criticism  of  life  which  art  de- 
mands. If  it  had  been,  the  audience,  myself 
included,  would  have  been  sitting  back  with  their 
lips  curled  dry,  instead  of  watering." 

"For  all  that,"  repHed  his  dragoman,  "it  is 
the  best  we  can  give  you ;  anything  which  induces 
the  detached  mood  of  which  you  spoke,  has  been 
banned  from  the  stage  since  the  days  of  the 
Great  Skirmish;  it  is  so  very  bad  for  business." 

"Pity!"  said  the  Angel,  imperceptibly  edging 
forward;  "the  mission  of  art  is  to  elevate." 

"It  is  plain,  sir,"  said  his  dragoman,  "that  you 
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GROTESQUES 

have  lost  touch  with  the  world  as  it  is.  The  mis- 
sion of  art — now  truly  democratic — is  to  level — 
in  principle  up,  in  practice  down.  Do  not  forget, 
sir,  that  the  English  have  ever  regarded  aestheti- 
cism  as  unmanly,  and  grace  as  immoral ;  when  to 
that  basic  principle  you  add  the  principle  of  serv- 
ing the  taste  of  the  majority,  you  have  perfect 
conditions  for  a  sure  and  gradual  decrescendo." 

"Does  taste,  then,  no  longer  exist?"  asked  the 
Angel. 

"It  is  not  wholly,  as  yet,  extinct,  but  lingers  in 
the  communal  kitchens  and  canteens,  as  intro- 
duced by  the  Young  Men's  Christian  Association 
in  the  days  of  the  Great  Skirmish.  While  there  is 
appetite  there  is  hope,  nor  is  it  wholly  discour- 
aging that  taste  should  now  centre  in  the  stomach; 
for  is  not  that  the  real  centre  of  man's  activity? 
Who  dare  affirm  that  from  so  universal  a  founda- 
tion the  fair  structure  of  sestheticism  shall  not 
be  rebuilt?  The  eye,  accustomed  to  the  look  of 
dainty  dishes  and  pleasant  cookery,  may  once 
more  demand  the  architecture  of  Wren,  the  sculp- 
ture of  Rodin,  the  paintings  of — dear  me — whom  ? 
Why,  sir,  even  before  the  days  of  the  Great 
Skirmish,  when  you  were  last  on  earth,  we  had 
already  begun  to  put  the  future  of  sestheticism  on 
a  more  real  basis,  and  were  converting  the  con- 
cert-halls of  London  into  hotels.    Few  at  the 

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GROTESQUES 

time  saw  the  far-reaching  significance  of  that 
movement,  or  realised  that  sestheticism  was  to  be 
levelled  down  to  the  stomach,  in  order  that  it 
might  be  levelled  up  again  to  the  head,  on  true 
democratic  principles." 

"But  what,"  said  the  Angel,  with  one  of  his 
preternatural  flashes  of  acumen,  "what  if,  on  the 
other  hand,  taste  should  continue  to  sink  and 
lose  even  ite  present  hold  on  the  stomach?  If 
all  else  has  gone,  why  should  not  the  beauty  of 
the  kitchen  go?" 

"That  indeed,"  sighed  his  dragoman,  placing 
his  hand  on  his  heart,  "is  a  thought  which  often 
gives  me  a  sinking  sensation.  Two  hqueur 
brandies,"  he  murmured  to  the  waiter.  "But 
the  stout  heart  refuses  to  despair.  Besides,  ad- 
vertisements show  decided  traces  of  aesthetic 
advance.  All  the  great  painters,  poets,  and  fic- 
tion writers  are  working  on  them;  the  movement 
had  its  origin  in  the  propaganda  demanded  by  the 
Great  Skirmish.  You  will  not  recollect  the  war 
poetry  of  that  period,  the  patriotic  films,  the  death 
cartoons,  and  other  remarkable  achievements. 
We  have  just  as  great  talents  now,  though  their 
object  has  not  perhaps  the  religious  singleness  of 
those  stirring  times.  Not  a  food,  corset,  or  collar 
which  has  not  its  artist  working  for  it!  Tooth- 
brushes, nutcrackers,    babies'  baths — the  whole 

279 


GROTESQUES 

caboodle  of  manufacture — are  now  set  to  music. 
Such  themes  are  considered  subliminal  if  not  sub- 
lime. No,  sir,  I  will  not  despair;  it  is  only  at 
moments  when  I  have  dined  poorly  that  the 
horizon  seems  dark.  Listen — they  have  turned 
on  the  'Kalophone,'  for  you  must  know  that  all 
music  now  is  beautifully  made  by  machine — so 
much  easier  for  every  one." 

The  Angel  raised  his  head,  and  into  his  eyes 
came  the  glow  associated  with  celestial  strains. 

"The  tune,"  he  said,  "is  familiar  to  me." 

"Yes,  sir,"  answered  his  dragoman,  "for  it  is 
*The  Messiah'  in  ragtime.  No  time  is  wasted, 
3^ou  notice;  all,  even  pleasure,  is  intensively  cul- 
tivated, on  the  lines  of  least  resistance,  thanks  to 
the  feverishness  engendered  in  us  by  the  Great 
Skirmish,  when  no  one  knew  if  he  would  have 
another  chance,  and  to  the  subsequent  need  for 
fostering  industry.  But  whether  we  really  en- 
joy ourselves  is  perhaps  a  question  to  answer 
which  you  must  examine  the  English  charac- 
ter." 

"That  I  refuse  to  do,"  said  the  Angel. 

"And  you  are  wise,  sir,  for  it  is  a  puzzler,  and 
many  have  cracked  their  heads  over  it.  But  have 
we  not  been  here  long  enough?  We  can  pursue 
our  researches  into  the  higher  realms  of  art  to- 


280 


i 


i 


II 


GROTESQUES 

A  beam  from  the  Angel's  lustrous  eyes  fell  on  a 
lady  at  the  next  table.  "Yes,  perhaps  we  had 
better  go,"  he  sighed. 


''And  so  it  is  through  the  fields  of  true  art  that 
we  shall  walk  this  morning?"  said  the  Angel 
iEthereal. 

"Such  as  they  are  in  this  j-ear  of  Peace  1947/' 
responded  his  dragoman,  arresting  him  before  a 
statue;  "for  the  development  of  this  hobby  has 
been  peculiar  since  you  were  here  in  1910,  when 
the  childlike  and  contortionist  movement  was 
just  begimiing  to  take  hold  of  the  British." 

"Whom  does  this  represent?"  asked  the  Angel. 

"A  celebrated  publicist,  recently  deceased  at  a 
great  age.  You  see  him  unfolded  by  this  work  of 
multiform  genius,  in  ever>'  aspect  known  to  art, 
rehgion,  nature,  and  the  population.  From  his 
knees  downwards  he  is  clearly  devoted  to  nature, 
and  is  portrayed  as  about  to  enter  his  bath.  From 
his  waist  to  his  knees  he  is  devoted  to  religion — 
mark  the  complete  disappearance  of  the  human 
aspect.  From  his  neck  to  his  waist  he  is  devoted 
to  public  affairs;  observe  the  tweed  coat,  the 
watch  chain,  and  other  signs  of  practical  sobriety. 
But  the  head  is,  after  all,  the  crown  of  the  human 
being,  and  is  devoted  to  art.     This  is  why  you 

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GROTESQUES 

cannot  make  out  that  it  is  a  head.  Note  its 
pyramidal  severity,  its  cmming  Httle  ears,  its  box- 
built,  water-tightal  structure.  The  hair  you  note 
to  be  in  flames.  Here  we  have  the  touch  of 
beauty — the  burning  shrub.  In  the  whole  you  will 
observe  that  aversion  from  natural  form  and  the 
single  point  of  view,  characteristic  of  all  twentieth- 
century  aesthetics.  The  whole  thing  is  a  very 
great  masterpiece  of  childlike  contortionism. 
To  do  things  as  irresponsibly  as  children  and 
contortionists — ^what  a  happy  discovery  of  the 
line  of  least  resistance  in  art  that  was!  Mark, 
by  the  way,  this  exquisite  touch  about  the  left 
hand." 

"It  appears  to  be  deformed,"  said  the  Angel, 
going  a  step  nearer. 

"Look  closer  still,"  returned  his  dragoman, 
"and  you  will  see  that  it  is  holding  a  novel  of  the 
great  Russian,  upside  down.  Ever  since  that 
simple  master  who  so  happily  blended  the  child- 
like with  the  contortionist  became  known  in  this 
country  they  have  been  trying  to  go  him  one 
better,  in  letters,  in  painting,  in  sculpture,  and 
in  music,  refusing  to  admit  that  he  was  the  last 
cry;  and  until  they  have  beaten  him  this  move- 
ment simply  cannot  cease;  it  may  therefore  go  on 
for  ever,  for  he  was  the  limit.  That  hand  sym- 
bolises the  whole  movement." 

282 


GROTESQUES 

"How?"  said  the  Angel. 

"Why,  sir,  somersault  is  its  mainspring.  Did 
you  never  observe  the  great  Russian's  method? 
Prepare  your  characters  to  do  one  thing,  and 
make  them  very  swiftly  do  the  opposite.  Thus 
did  that  terrific  novelist  demonstrate  his  over- 
mastering range  of  vision  and  knowledge  of  the 
depths  of  human  nature.  Since  his  characters 
never  varied  this  routine  in  the  course  of  some 
eight  thousand  pages,  people  have  Hghtly  said 
that  he  repeated  himself.  But  what  of  that? 
Consider  what  perfect  dissociation  he  thereby  at- 
tained between  character  and  action;  what  nebu- 
losity of  fact;  what  a  truly  childlike  and  mystic 
mix-up  of  all  human  values  hitherto  known! 
And  here,  sir,  at  the  risk  of  tickling  you,  I  must 
whisper."  The  dragoman  made  a  trumpet  of  his 
hand:  "Fiction  can  only  be  written  by  those  who 
have  exceptionally  little  knowledge  of  ordinary 
human  nature,  and  great  fiction  only  by  such  as 
have  none  at  all." 

"How  is  that?"  said  the  Angel,  somewhat  dis- 
concerted. 

"Surprise,  sir,  is  the  ver}'-  kernel  of  all  effects 
in  art,  and  in  real  Hfe  people  will  act  as  their  char- 
acters and  temperaments  detennine  that  they 
shall.  This  dreadful  and  unmalleable  trait  would 
have  upset  all  the  great  mystic  masters  from 

283 


GROTESQUES 

generation  to  generation  if  they  had  only  noticed 
it.  But  did  they?  Fortunately  not.  These 
greater  men  naturally  put  into  their  books  the 
greater  confusion  and  flux  in  which  their  extraor- 
dinary selves  exist!  The  nature  the}'  portray  is 
not  human,  but  super-  or  subter-human,  which 
you  will.    Who  would  have  it  otherwise?" 

"Not  I,"  said  the  Angel.  ''For  I  confess  to  a 
Uking  for  what  is  called  the  'tuppence  coloured.' 
But  Russians  are  not  as  other  men,  are  they?" 

"They  are  not,"  said  his  dragoman,  "but  the 
trouble  is,  sir,  that  since  the  British  discovered 
him,  every  character  in  our  greater  fiction  has  a 
Russian  soul,  though  Hving  in  Cornwall  or  the 
Midlands,  in  a  British  body  under  a  Scottish  or 
English  name." 

"Very  piquant,"  said  the  Angel,  turning  from 
the  masterpiece  before  him.  "Are  there  no  un- 
draped  statues  to  be  seen  ?  " 

"In  no  recognisable  form.  For,  not  being  edu- 
cated to  the  detached  contemplation  which  still 
prevailed  to  a  limited  extent  even  as  late  as  the 
days  of  the  Great  Skirmish,  the  populace  can  no 
longer  be  trusted  with  such  works  of  art;  they  are 
liable  to  rush  at  them,  for  embrace,  or  demolition, 
as  their  temperaments  may  dictate." 

"The  Greeks  are  dead,  then,"  said  the  Angel. 

"As  door-nails,  sir.  They  regarded  life  as  a 
284 


GROTESQUES 

thing  to  be  enjoyed — a  vice  you  will  not  have 
noticed  in  the  British.  The  Greeks  were  an  out- 
door people,  who  Uved  in  the  sun  and  the  fresh 
air,  and  had  none  of  the  niceness  bred  by  the  life 
of  our  towns.  We  have  long  been  renowned  for 
our  delicacy  about  the  body;  nor  has  the  tendency 
been  decreased  by  constituting  Watch  Commit- 
tees of  young  persons  in  every  borough.  These 
are  now  the  arbiters  of  art,  and  nothing  unsuit- 
able to  the  child  of  seven  passes  their  censorship." 

''How  careful!"  said  the  Angel. 

"The  result  has  been  wonderful,"  remarked  his 
dragoman.  "Wonderful!"  he  repeated,  dreamily. 
''I  suppose  there  is  more  smouldering  sexual  de- 
sire and  disease  in  this  country  than  in  any 
other." 

"Was  that  the  intention?"  asked  the  Angel. 

"  Oh !  no,  sir !  That  is  but  the  natural  effect  of 
so  remarkably  pure  a  surface.  All  is  within  in- 
stead of  without.  Nature  has  now  wholly  disap- 
peared. The  process  was  sped  up  by  the  Great 
Skirmish.  For,  since  then,  we  have  had  little 
leisure  and  income  to  spare  on  the  gratification  of 
anything  but  laughter;  this  and  the  'unco-guid' 
have  made  our  art-surface  glare  in  the  eyes  of  the 
nations,  thin  and  spotless  as  if  made  of  tin." 

The  Angel  raised  his  eyebrows.  "I  had  hoped 
for  better  things,"  he  said. 

285 


GROTESQUES 

"You  must  not  suppose,  sir,"  pursued  his 
dragoman,  "that  there  is  not  plenty  of  the  un- 
draped,  so  long  as  it  is  vulgar,  as  you  saw  just 
now  upon  the  stage,  for  that  is  good  business; 
the  line  is  only  drawn  at  the  danger-point  of  art, 
which  is  always  very  bad  business  in  this  coun- 
try. Yet  even  in  real  Hfe  the  undraped  has  to  be 
grotesque  to  be  admitted;  the  one  fatal  quality 
is  natural  beauty.  The  laugh,  sir,  the  laugh — 
even  the  most  hideous  and  vulgar  laugh — is  such 
a  disinfectant.  I  should,  however,  say  in  justice 
to  our  literary  men,  that  they  have  not  altogether 
succumbed  to  the  demand  for  cachinnations.  A 
school,  which  first  drew  breath  before  the  Great 
Skirmish  began,  has  perfected  itself,  till  now  we 
have  whole  tomes  where  hardly  a  sentence  would 
be  intelligible  to  any  save  the  initiate;  this  en- 
ables them  to  defy  the  Watch  Committees,  with 
other  Philistines.  We  have  writers  who  mys- 
teriously preach  the  realisation  of  self  by  never 
considering  anybody  else;  of  purity  through  ex- 
perience of  exotic  vice;  of  courage  through  habit- 
ual cowardice ;  and  of  kindness  through  Prussian 
behaviour.  They  are  generally  young.  We  have 
others  whose  fiction  consists  of  autobiography  in- 
terspersed with  philosophic  and  political  fluencies. 
These  may  be  of  any  age  from  eighty  odd  to  the 
bitter  thirties.    We  have  also  the  copious  and 

2S6 


GROTESQUES 

chatty  novelist;  and  transcribers  of  the  life  of  the 
Laborious,  whom  the  Laborious  never  read. 
Above  all,  we  have  the  great  Patriotic  school, 
who  put  the  national  motto  first,  and  write  purely 
what  is  good  for  trade.  In  fact,  we  have  every 
sort,  as  in  the  old  days." 

"It  would  appear,"  said  the  Angel,  "that  the 
arts  have  stood  somewhat  still." 

"Except  for  a  more  external  purity,  and  a 
higher  internal  corruption,"  rephed  his  dragoman. 

"Are  artists  still  noted  for  their  jealousies?" 
asked  the  Angel. 

"  They  are,  sir;  for  that  is  inherent  in  the  artistic 
temperament,  which  is  extremely  touchy  about 
fame." 

"And  do  they  still  get  angry  when  those  gentle- 
men— the " 

"Critics,"  his  dragoman  suggested.  "They 
get  angry,  sir;  but  critics  are  usually  anonymous, 
and  from  excellent  reasons;  for  not  only  are  the 
passions  of  an  angry  artist  very  high,  but  the 
knowledge  of  an  angry  critic  is  not  infrequently 
very  low,  especially  of  art.  It  is  kinder  to  save 
life,  where  possible." 

"For  my  part,"  said  the  Angel,  "I  have  little 
regard  for  human  life,  and  consider  that  many 
persons  would  be  better  buried." 

"That  may  be,"  his  dragoman  retorted  with 
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GROTESQUES 

some  irritation;  "^errare  est  humanum.^  But  I, 
for  one,  would  rather  be  a  dead  human  being  any- 
day  than  a  live  angel,  for  I  think  they  are  more 
charitable." 

"Well,"  said  the  Angel  genially,  "you  have  the 
prejudice  of  your  kind.  Have  you  an  artist  about 
the  place,  to  show  me?  I  do  not  recollect  any 
at  Madame  Tussaud's." 

"They  have  taken  to  declining  that  honour. 
We  could  see  one  in  real  life  if  we  went  to  Corn- 
wall." 

"Why  Cornwall?" 

"I  cannot  tell  you,  sir.  There  is  something  in 
the  air  which  affects  their  passions." 

"I  am  hungry,  and  would  rather  go  to  the 
Savoy,"  said  the  Angel,  walking  on. 

"You  are  in  luck,"  whispered  his  dragoman, 
when  they  had  seated  themselves  at  a  table  cov- 
ered with  prawns;  "for  at  the  next  on  your  left 
is  our  most  famous  exponent  of  the  mosaic  school 
of  novehsm." 

"Then  here  goes!"  replied  the  Angel.  And, 
turning  to  his  neighbour,  he  asked  pleasantly: 
"How  do  you  do,  sir?    What  is  your  income?" 

The  gentleman  addressed  looked  up  from  his 
prawn,  and  replied  wearily :  "Ask  my  agent.  He 
may  conceivably  possess  the  knowledge  you  re- 
quire." 

288 


GROTESQUES 

"Answer  me  this,  at  all  events,"  said  the 
Angel,  with  more  dignity,  if  possible:  "How  do 
you  write  your  books  ?  For  it  must  be  wonderful 
to  summon  around  you  every  day  the  creatures 
of  your  imagination.  Do  you  wait  for  affla- 
tus?" 

"No,"  said  the  author;  "er — no!  I — er — " 
he  added  weightily,  "sit  down  every  morning." 

The  Angel  rolled  his  eyes  and,  turning  to  his 
dragoman,  said  in  a  well-bred  whisper:  "He  sits 
down  every  morning!  My  Lord,  how  good  for 
trade!" 

VI 

"A  glass  of  sherry,  dry,  and  ham  sandwich, 
stale,  can  be  obtained  here,  sir,"  said  the  drago- 
man; "and  for  dessert,  the  scent  of  parchment 
and  bananas.  We  will  then  attend  Court  45, 
where  I  shall  show  you  how  fundamentally  our 
legal  procedure  has  changed  in  the  generation 
that  has  elapsed  since  the  days  of  the  Great 
Skirmish." 

"Can  it  really  be  that  the  Law  has  changed? 
I  had  thought  it  immutable,"  said  the  Angel, 
causing  his  teeth  to  meet  with  difficulty:  "WTiat 
will  be  the  nature  of  the  suit  to  which  we  shall 
listen?" 

"  I  have  thought  it  best,  sir,  to  select  a  divorce 
289 


GROTESQUES 

case,  lest  you  should  sleep,  overcome  by  the  ozone 
and  eloquence  in  these  places." 

"Ah!"  said  the  Angel:  "I  am  ready." 

The  Court  was  crowded,  and  they  took  their 
seats  with  difficulty,  and  a  lady  sitting  on  the 
Angel's  left  wing. 

"The  public  will  frequent  this  class  of  case," 
whispered  his  dragoman.  "How  different  when 
you  were  here  in  1910!" 

The  Angel  collected  himself:  "Tell  me,"  he 
murmured,  "which  of  the  grey-haired  ones  is  the 
judge?" 

"He  in  the  bag-wig,  sir,"  returned  his  drago- 
man; "and  that  little  lot  is  the  jury,"  he 
added,  indicating  twelve  gentlemen  seated  in 
two  rows. 

"What  is  their  private  life?"  asked  the  Angel. 

"No  better  than  it  should  be,  perhaps,"  re- 
sponded his  dragoman  facetiously;  "but  no  one 
can  tell  that  from  their  words  and  manner,  as  you 
will  presently  see.  These  are  special  ones,"  he 
added,  "and  pay  income  tax,  so  that  their  judg- 
ment in  matters  of  morality  is  of  considerable 
value." 

"They  have  wise  faces,"  said  the  Angel. 
"Which  is  the  prosecutor?" 

"No,  no!"  his  dragoman  answered,  vividly: 
"This  is  a  civil  case.    That  is  the  plaintiff  with 

290 


GROTESQUES 

a  little  mourning  about  her  eyes  and  a  touch  of 
red  about  her  lips,  in  the  black  hat  with  the 
aigrette,  the  pearls,  and  the  fashionably  sober 
clothes." 

"I  see  her,"  said  the  Angel:  "an  attractive 
woman.    Will  she  win?" 

"We  do  not  call  it  winning,  sir;  for  this,  as  you 
must  know,  is  a  sad  matter,  and  impHes  the  break- 
ing-up  of  a  home.  She  will  most  unwillingly  re- 
ceive a  decree,  at  least,  I  think  so,"  he  added; 
"though  whether  it  will  stand  the  scrutiny  of  the 
King's  Proctor  we  may  wonder  a  little,  from  her 
appearance." 

"King's  Proctor?"  said  the  Angel.  "What  is 
that?" 

"A  celestial  Die-hard,  sir,  paid  to  join  together 
again  those  whom  man  have  put  asunder." 

"I  do  not  follow,"  said  the  Angel  fretfully. 

"I  perceive,"  whispered  his  dragoman,  "that  I 
must  make  clear  to  you  the  spirit  which  animates 
our  justice  in  these  matters.  You  know,  of  course, 
that  the  intention  of  our  law  is  ever  to  penaHse 
the  wrong-doer.  It  therefore  requires  the  inno- 
cent party,  like  that  lady  there,  to  be  exception- 
ally innocent,  not  only  before  she  secures  her  di- 
vorce, but  for  six  months  afterwards." 

"Oh!"  said  the  Angel.  "And  where  is  the 
guilty  party?" 

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GROTESQUES 

"Probably  in  the  south  of  France,"  returned 
his  dragoman,  "with  the  new  partner  of  his  af- 
fections. They  have  a  place  in  the  sun;  this  one 
a  place  in  the  Law  Courts." 

"  Dear  me ! "  said  the  Angel.  "  Does  she  prefer 
that?" 

"There  are  ladies,"  his  dragoman  replied,  "who 
find  it  a  pleasure  to  appear,  no  matter  where,  so 
long  as  people  can  see  them  in  a  pretty  hat.  But 
the  great  majority  would  rather  sink  into  the 
earth  than  do  this  thing." 

"The  face  of  this  one  is  most  agreeable  to  me; 
I  should  not  wish  her  to  sink,"  said  the  Angel 
warmly. 

"Agreeable  or  not,"  resumed  his  dragoman, 
"they  have  to  bring  their  hearts  for  inspection  by 
the  public  if  they  wish  to  become  free  from  the 
party  who  has  done  them  wrong.  This  is  neces- 
sary, for  the  penalisation  of  the  wrong-doer." 

"And  how  will  he  be  penalised?"  asked  the 
Angel  naively. 

"By  receiving  his  freedom,"  returned  his  drago- 
man, "together  with  the  power  to  enjoy  himself 
with  his  new  partner,  in  the  sun,  until,  in  due 
course,  he  is  able  to  marr}^  her." 

"This  is  mysterious  to  me,"  murmured  the 
Angel.    "Is  not  the  boot  on  the  wrong  leg?" 

"Oh!  sir,  the  law  would  not  make  a  mistake 
292 


GROTESQUES 

like  that.  You  are  bringing  a  single  mind  to  the 
consideration  of  this  matter,  but  that  will  never 
do.  This  lady  is  a  ti-ue  and  much-wronged  wife; 
that  is — let  us  hope  so ! — to  whom  our  law  has 
given  its  protection  and  remedy;  but  she  is  also, 
in  its  eyes,  somewhat  reprehensible  for  desiring 
to  avail  herself  of  that  protection  and  remedy. 
For,  though  the  law  is  now  purely  the  affair  of 
the  State  and  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  Ap- 
pointed, it  still  secretly  believes  in  the  religious 
maxim:  'Once  married,  always  married,'  and  feels 
that  ho^vever  much  a  married  person  is  neglected 
or  ill-treated,  she  should  not  desire  to  be  free." 

"She?"  said  the  Angel.  "Does  a  man  never 
desire  to  be  free?" 

"  Oh,  yes !  sir,  and  not  infrequently." 

"Does  your  law,  then,  not  consider  him  rep- 
rehensible in  that  desire?" 

"In  theory,  perhaps;  but  there  is  a  subtle  dis- 
tinction. For,  sir,  as  you  obser\^e  from  the 
countenances  before  you,  the  law  is  administered 
entirely  by  males,  and  males  cannot  but  believe 
in  the  divine  right  of  males  to  have  a  better 
time  than  females;  and,  though  they  do  not  say 
so,  they  naturally  feel  that  a  husband  wronged 
by  a  wife  is  more  injured  than  a  wife  wronged  by 
a  husband." 

"There  is  much  in  that,"  said  the  Angel.  " But 
293 


GROTESQUES 

tell  me  how  the  oracle  is  worked — for  it  may  come 
in  handy!" 

"You  allude,  sir,  to  the  necessary  procedure? 
I  will  make  this  clear.  There  are  two  kinds  of 
cases:  what  I  may  call  the  'O.K.'  and  what  I 
may  call  the  'rig.'  Now  in  the  'O.K.'  it  is  only 
necessary  for  the  plaintiff,  if  it  be  a  woman,  to 
receive  a  black  eye  from  her  husband  and  to 
pay  detectives  to  find  out  that  he  has  been  too 
closely  in  the  company  of  another;  if  it  be  a  man, 
he  need  not  receive  a  black  eye  from  his  wife, 
and  has  merely  to  pay  the  detectives  to  obtain 
the  same  necessary  information." 

"Why  this  difference  between  the  se.xes?" 
asked  the  Angel. 

"Because,"  answered  his  dragoman,  "woman  is 
the  weaker  sex,  things  are  therefore  harder  for 
her." 

"But,"  said  the  Angel,  "the  English  have  a 
reputation  for  chivalry." 

"They  have,  sir." 

"Well "  began  the  Angel. 

"When  these  conditions  are  complied  with,'* 
interrupted  his  dragoman,  "a  suit  for  divorce 
may  be  brought,  which  may  or  may  not  be  de- 
fended. Now,  the  'rig,'  which  is  always  brought 
}:>y  the  wife,  is  not  so  simple,  for  it  must  be  sub- 
divided into  two  sections:  'Ye  straight  rig'  and 

294 


GROTESQUES 

*Ye  crooked  rig.'  'Ye  straight  rig'  is  where  the 
wife  cannot  induce  her  husband  to  remain  with 
her,  and  discovering  from  him  that  he  has  been 
in  the  close  company  of  another,  wishes  to  be 
free  of  him.  She  therefore  tells  the  Court  that 
she  wishes  him  to  come  back  to  her,  and  the 
Court  will  tell  him  to  go  back.  Whereon,  if  he 
obey,  the  fat  is  sometimes  in  the  fire.  If,  however, 
he  obeys  not,  which  is  the  more  probable,  she  may^ 
after  a  short  delay,  bring  a  suit,  adducing  the 
e\adence  she  has  obtained,  and  receive  a  decree. 
This  may  be  the  case  before  you,  or,  on  the  other 
hand,  it  may  not,  and  will  then  be  what  is  called 
'Ye  crooked  rig.'  If  that  is  so,  these  two  per- 
sons, having  found  that  they  cannot  live  in  con- 
jugal friendliness,  have  laid  their  heads  together 
for  the  last  time,  and  arranged  to  part;  the  pro- 
cedure will  now  be  the  same  as  in  'Ye  straight 
rig.'  But  the  wife  must  take  the  greatest  care  to 
lead  the  Court  to  suppose  that  she  really  wishes 
her  husband  to  come  back;  for,  if  she  does  not, 
it  is  collusion.  The  more  ardent  her  desire  to 
part  from  him,  the  more  care  she  must  take  to 
pretend  the  opposite!  But  this  sort  of  case  is, 
after  all,  the  simplest,  for  both  parties  are  in 
complete  accord  in  desiring  to  be  free  of  each 
other,  so  neither  does  anji^hing  to  retard  that 
end,  which  is  soon  obtained." 

295 


GROTESQUES 

"About  that  evidence?"  said  the  Angel.  "What 
must  the  man  do?" 

"He  will  require  to  go  to  an  hotel  with  a  lady- 
friend,"  replied  his  dragoman;  "once  will  be 
enough.  And,  provided  they  are  called  in  the 
morning,  there  is  no  real  necessity  for  anything 
else." 

"H'm!"  said  the  Angel.  "This,  indeed,  seems 
to  me  to  be  all  around  about  the  bush.  Could 
there  not  be  some  simple  method  which  would 
not  necessitate  the  perversion  of  the  truth?" 

"Ah,  no!"  responded  his  dragoman.  "You 
forget  what  I  told  you,  sir.  However  unhappy 
people  may  be  together,  our  law  grudges  their 
separation;  it  requires  them  therefore  to  be  im- 
moral, or  to  lie,  or  both,  before  they  can  part." 

"Curious!"  said  the  Angel. 

"You  must  understand,  sir,  that  when  a  man 
says  he  will  take  a  woman,  and  a  woman  says  she 
will  take  a  man,  for  the  rest  of  their  natural  ex- 
istence, they  are  assumed  to  know  all  about  each 
other,  though  not  permitted,  of  course,  by  the 
laws  of  morality  to  know  anything  of  real  im- 
portance. Since  it  is  almost  impossible  from  a 
modest  acquaintanceship  to  make  sure  whether 
they  will  continue  to  desire  each  other's  company 
after  a  completed  knowledge,  they  are  naturally 
disposed  to  go  it  'blind,'  if  I  may  be  pardoned 

296 


GROTESQUES 

the  expression,  and  will  take  each  other  for  ever 
on  the  smallest  provocations.  For  the  human 
being,  sir,  makes  nothing  of  the  words  'for  ever,' 
when  it  sees  immediate  happiness  before  it.  You 
can  well  understand,  therefore,  how  necessary  it 
is  to  make  it  very  hard  for  them  to  get  untied 
again." 

^'I  should  dislike  living  with  a  wife  if  I  were 
tired  of  her,"  said  the  Angel. 

"Sir,"  returned  his  dragoman  confidentially, 
"in  that  sentiment  you  would  have  with  you  the 
whole  male  population.  And,  I  beheve,  the 
whole  of  the  female  population  would  feel  the 
same  if  they  were  tired  of  you,  as  the  husband." 

"That!"  said  the  Angel,  with  a  quiet  smile. 

"Ah!  yes,  sir;  but  does  not  this  convince  you 
of  the  necessity  to  force  people  who  are  tired  of 
each  other  to  go  on  living  together?" 

"No,"  said  the  Angel,  with  appalling  frankness. 

"Well,"  his  dragoman  replied  soberly,  "I  must 
admit  that  some  have  thought  our  marriage  laws 
should  be  in  a  museum,  for  they  are  unique;  and, 
though  a  source  of  amusement  to  the  public,  and 
emolument  to  the  profession,  they  pass  the  com- 
prehension of  men  and  angels  who  have  not  the 
key  of  the  mystery." 

"What  key?"  asked  the  Angel. 

"I  will  give  it  you,  sir,"  said  his  dragoman: 
297 


GROTESQUES 

"The  English  have  a  genius  for  taking  the  shadow 
of  a  thing  for  its  substance.  'So  long/  they  say, 
'as  our  marriages,  our  virtue,  our  honesty,  and 
happiness  seem  to  be,  they  are.'  So  long,  there- 
fore, as  we  do  not  dissolve  a  marriage  it  remains 
virtuous,  honest  and  happy  though  the  parties 
to  it  may  be  unfaithful,  untruthful,  and  in  misery. 
It  would  be  regarded  as  awful,  sir,  for  marriage  to 
depend  on  mutual  liking.  We  English  cannot 
bear  the  thought  of  defeat.  To  dissolve  an  un- 
happy marriage  is  to  recognise  defeat  by  life, 
and  we  would  rather  that  other  people  lived  in 
wretchedness  all  their  days  than  admit  that  mem- 
bers of  our  race  had  come  up  against  something 
too  hard  to  overcome.  The  English  do  not  care 
about  making  the  best  out  of  this  life  in  reality  so 
long  as  they  can  do  it  in  appearance." 
"Then  they  believe  in  a  future  life?" 
"They  did  to  some  considerable  extent  up  to 
the  'eighties  of  the  last  century,  and  their  laws 
and  customs  were  no  doubt  settled  in  accordance 
therewith,  and  have  not  yet  had  time  to  adapt 
themselves.  We  are  a  somewhat  slow-moving 
people,  always  a  generation  or  two  behind  our 
real  beliefs." 

"They  have  lost  their  belief,  then?" 
"It  is  difficult  to  arrive  at  figures,  sir,  on  such 
a  question.    But  it  has  been  estimated  that  per- 

298 


GROTESQUES 

haps  one  in  ten  adults  now  has  some  semblance 
of  what  may  be  called  active  belief  in  a  future 
existence." 

"And  the  rest  are  prepared  to  let  their  lives  be 
arranged  in  accordance  with  the  belief  of  that 
tenth?"  asked  the  Angel,  surprised.  "Tell  me, 
do  they  think  their  matrimonial  differences  will 
be  adjusted  over  there,  or  what?" 

"As  to  that,  all  is  cloudy;  and  certain  matters 
would  be  difficult  to  adjust  without  bigamy;  for 
general  opinion  and  the  law  permit  the  remarriage 
of  persons  whose  first  has  gone  before." 

"How  about  children?"  said  the  Angel;  "for 
that  is  no  inconsiderable  item,  I  imagine." 

"Yes,  sir,  they  are  a  difficulty.  But  here, 
agam,  my  key  will  fit.  So  long  as  the  marriage 
seems  real,  it  does  not  matter  that  the  children 
know  it  isn't  and  suffer  from  the  disharmony  of 
their  parents." 

"I  think,"  said  the  Angel  acutely,  "there  must 
be  some  more  earthly  reason  for  the  condition  of 
your  marriage  laws  than  those  you  give  me.  It's 
all  a  matter  of  property  at  bottom,  I  suspect." 

"Sir,"  said  his  dragoman,  seemingly  much 
struck,  "I  should  not  be  surprised  if  you  were 
right.  There  is  little  interest  in  divorce  where  no 
money  is  involved,  and  our  poor  are  considered 
able  to  do  without  it.     But  I  will  never  admit 

299 


GROTESQUES 

that  this  is  the  reason  for  the  state  of  our  dlTorce 
laws.    No,  no;  I  am  an  EngHshman." 

''Well/'  said  the  Angel,  "we  are  wandering. 
Does  this  judge  believe  what  they  are  now  saying 
to  him?" 

"It  is  impossible  to  inform  you,  for  judges  are 
veiy  deep  and  know  all  that  is  to  be  known  on 
these  matters.  But  of  this  you  may  be  certain: 
if  anything  is  fishy  to  the  average  ^prehension, 
he  will  Bot  suffer  it  to  pass  his  nose." 

"Where  is  the  average  apprehension?"  asked 
the  Angel. 

"TTiere,  sir,"  said  his  dragoman,  pointing  to 
the  jury  with  his  chin,  "noted  for  their  «ommon 
sense." 

"And  these  others  with  grey  beads  who  are 
calling  each  other  friend,  though  they  appear  to 
be  inimical?" 

"Little  can  be  hid  from  them,"  returned  his 
dragoman;  "but  this  case,  though  defended  as  to 
certain  matters  of  money,  is  not  disputed  in  re- 
gard to  the  divorce  itself.  Moreover,  they  are 
bound  by  professional  etiquette  to  serve  their 
clients  through  thin  and  thick." 

"Cease!"  said  the  Angel;  "I  wish  to  hear  this 
evidence,  and  so  does  the  lady  on  my  left  wing." 

His  dragoman  smiled  in  his  beard,  and  made  no 
answer. 

300 


GROTESQUES 

"Tell  me,"  remarked  the  Angel,  when  he  had 
listened,  "  does  this  woman  get  anything  for  say- 
ing she  called  them  in  the  morning?" 

"Fie,  sir!"  responded  his  dragoman;  "only  her 
expenses  to  the  Court  and  back.  Though  indeed, 
it  is  possible  that  after  she  had  called  them,  she 
got  half  a  sovereign  from  the  defendant  to  im- 
press the  matter  on  her  mind,  seeing  that  she 
calls  many  people  every  day." 

"The  whole  matter,"  said  the  Angel  with  a 
frown,  "appears  to  be  in  the  nature  of  a  game; 
nor  are  the  details  as  savoury  as  I  expected." 

"It  would  be  otherwise  if  the  case  were  de- 
fended, sir,"  returned  his  dragoman;  "then,  too, 
you  would  have  had  an  opportunity  of  under- 
standing the  capacity  of  the  human  mind  for 
seeing  the  same  incident  to  be  both  black  and 
white;  but  it  would  take  much  of  your  valuable 
time,  and  the  Court  would  be  so  crowded  that 
you  would  have  a  lady  sitting  on  your  right  wing 
also,  and  possibly  on  your  knee.  For,  as  you  ob- 
serve, ladies  are  particularly  attached  to  these 
dramas  of  real  life." 

"If  my  wife  were  a  wrong  one,"  said  the  Angel, 
"I  suppose  that,  according  to  your  law,  I  could 
not  sew  her  up  in  a  sack  and  place  it  in  the  water  ? ' ' 

"We  are  not  now  in  the  days  of  the  Great 
Skirmish,"  rephed  his  dragoman  somewhat  coldly. 

301 


GROTESQUES 

''At  that  time  any  soldier  who  found  his  wife 
unfaithful,  as  we  call  it,  could  shoot  her  with 
impunity  and  receive  the  plaudits  and  possibly  a 
presentation  from  the  populace,  though  he  him- 
self may  not  have  been  impeccable  while  awa}^ — 
a  masterly  method  of  securing  a  divorce.  But, 
as  I  told  you,  our  procedure  has  changed  since 
then;  and  even  soldiers  now  have  to  go  to  work 
in  this  roundabout  fashion." 

"Can  he  not  shoot  the  paramour?"  asked  the 
Angel. 

"Not  even  that,"  answered  his  dragoman. 
"So  soft  and  degenerate  are  the  days.  Though, 
if  he  can  invent  for  the  paramour  a  German  name, 
he  will  still  receive  but  a  nominal  sentence.  Our 
law  is  renowned  for  never  being  swayed  by  senti- 
mental reasons.  I  well  recollect  a  case  in  the 
days  of  the  Great  Skirmish,  when  a  jury  found 
contrary  to  the  plainest  facts  sooner  than  allow 
that  reputation  for  impartiality  to  be  tarnished." 

"Ah!"  said  the  Angel  absently;  "what  is  hap- 
pening now?" 

"The  jury  are  considering  their  verdict.  The 
conclusion  is,  however,  foregone,  for  they  are  not 
retiring.  The  plaintiff  is  now  using  her  smelling 
salts." 

"She  is  a  fine  woman,"  said  the  Angel  em- 
phatically. 

302 


GROTESQUES 

"Hush,  sir !    The  judge  might  hear  you." 

"What  if  he  does?"  asked  the  Angel  in  sur- 
prise. 

"He  would  then  eject  you  for  contempt  of 
Court." 

"Does  he  not  think  her  a  fine  woman,  too?" 

"For  the  love  of  justice,  sir,  be  silent,"  en- 
treated his  dragoman.  "This  concerns  the  hap- 
piness of  three,  if  not  of  five  lives.  Look!  She 
is  lifting  her  veil ;  she  is  going  to  use  her  handker- 
chief." 

"I  cannot  bear  to  see  a  woman  crj-,"  said  the 
Angel,  trying  to  rise;  "please  take  this  lady  off 
my  left  wing." 

"Kindly  sit  tight !"  murmured  his  dragoman  to 
the  lady,  leaning  across  behind  the  Angel's  back. 
"Listen,  sir!"  he  added  to  the  Angel:  "The  jury 
are  satisfied  that  what  is  necessary  has  taken 
place.    All  is  well;  she  will  get  her  decree." 

"Hurrah!"  said  the  Angel  in  a  loud  voice. 

"If  that  noise  is  repeated,  I  will  have  the  Court 
cleared." 

"I  am  going  to  repeat  it,"  said  the  Angel 
firmly;  "she  is  beautiful!" 

His  dragoman  placed  a  hand  respectfully  over 
the  Angel's  mouth.  "Oh,  sir!"  he  said  sooth- 
ingly, "do  not  spoil  this  charming  moment. 
Hark !    He  is  giving  her  a  decree  nisi,  with  costs. 

303 


V 


GROTESQUES 

To-morrow  it  will  be  in  all  the  papers,  for  it  helps 
to  sell  them.  See!  She  is  withdrawing;  we  can 
now  go."    And  he  disengaged  the  Angel's  wing. 

The  Angel  rose  quickly  and  made  his  way  to- 
wards the  door.  "I  am  going  to  walk  out  with 
her/'  he  announced  joyously. 

"I  beseech  you,"  said  his  dragoman,  hurry- 
ing beside  him,  "remember  the  King's  Proctor! 
Where  is  your  cliivalry?  For  he  has  none,  sir — 
not  a  little  bit!" 

"Bring  him  to  me;  I  will  give  it  him!"  said 
the  Angel,  kissing  the  tips  of  his  fingers  to  the 
plaintiff,  who  was  vanishing  in  the  gloom  of  the 
fresh  air. 

VII 

In  the  Strangers'  room  of  the  Strangers'  Club 
the  usual  solitude  was  reigning  when  the  Angel 
^Ethereal  entered. 

"You  will  be  quiet  here,"  said  his  dragoman, 
drawing  up  two  leather  chairs  to  the  hearth,  "and 
comfortable,"  he  added,  as  the  Angel  crossed  his 
legs.  "After  our  recent  experience,  I  thought  it 
better  to  bring  you  where  yom*  mind  would  be 
composed,  since  we  have  to  consider  so  important 
a  subject  as  morality.  There  is  no  place,  indeed, 
where  we  could  be  so  completely  sheltered  from 
life,  or  so  free  to  evolve  from  our  inner  conecious- 

304 


GROTESQUES 

ness  the  momentous  conclusions  of  the  armchair 
moralist.  When  you  have  had  your  sneeze,"  he 
added,  glancing  at  the  Angel,  who  was  taking 
snuff, "  I  shall  make  known  to  you  the  conclusions  I 
have  formed  in  the  course  of  a  chequered  career." 

"Before  you  do  that,"  said  the  Angel,  "it 
would  perhaps  be  as  well  to  limit  the  sphere  of 
our  inquiry." 

"As  to  that,"  remarked  his  dragoman,  "I  shall 
confine  mj  information  to  the  morals  of  the  Eng- 
lish since  the  opening  of  the  Great  Skirmish,  in 
1914,  just  a  short  generation  of  three  and  thirty 
years  ago;  and  you  will  find  my  theme  readily 
falls,  sir,  into  the  two  main  compartments  of 
public  and  private  morality.  When  I  have  finished 
you  can  ask  me  any  questions." 

"Proceed!"  said  the  Angel,  letting  his  eyeUds 
droop. 

"Public  morality,"  his  dragoman  began,  "is 
either  superlative,  comparative,  positive,  or  nega- 
tive. And  superlative  morality  is  found,  of  course, 
only  in  tiie  newspapers.  It  is  the  special  pre- 
rogative of  leader-writers.  Its  note,  remote  and 
unchallengeable,  was  well  struck  by  almost  eveiy 
organ  at  the  commencement  of  the  Great  Skir- 
mish, and  may  be  summed  up  in  a  single  solemn 
phrase : '  We  will  sacrifice  on  the  altar  of  duty  the 
last  life  and  the  last  dollar — except  the  last  life 

305 


GROTESQUES 

and  dollar  of  the  last  leader-writer.'  For,  as  all 
must  see,  that  one  had  to  be  preserved,  to  ensure 
and  comment  on  the  consummation  of  the  sacri- 
fice. What  loftier  morality  can  be  conceived? 
And  it  has  ever  been  a  grief  to  the  multitude  that 
the  lives  of  those  patriots  and  benefactors  of  their 
species  should,  through  modesty,  have  been  un- 
revealed  to  such  as  pant  to  copy  them.  Here  and 
there  the  lineaments  of  a  tip-topper  were  dis- 
cernible beneath  the  disguise  of  custom;  but 
what  fair  existences  were  screened !  I  may  tell 
you  at  once,  sir,  that  the  State  was  so  much 
struck  at  the  time  of  the  Great  Skirmish  by  this 
doctrine  of  the  utter  sacrifice  of  others  that  it 
almost  immediate!}"  adopted  the  idea,  and  has 
struggled  to  retain  it  ever  since.  Indeed,  only 
the  unaccountable  reluctance  of  'others'  to  be 
utterly  sacrificed  has  ensured  their  perpetuity." 

"In  1910,"  said  the  Angel,  "I  happened  to  no- 
tice that  the  Prussians  had  already  perfected  that 
system.  Yet  it  was  against  the  Prussians  that 
this  country  fought?" 

"That  is  so,"  returned  his  dragoman;  "there 
were  many  who  drew  attention  to  the  fact.  And 
at  the  conclusion  of  the  Great  Skirmish  the  re- 
action was  such  that  for  a  long  moment  even  the 
leader-writers  wavered  in  their  selfless  doctrines; 
nor  could  continuity  be  secured  till  the  Laborious 

306 


GROTESQUES 

Party  came  solidly  to  the  saddle  in  1930.  Since 
then  the  principle  has  been  firm  but  the  practice 
has  been  firmer,  and  public  moraUty  has  never 
been  altogether  superlative.  Let  us  pass  to  com- 
parative public  morality.  In  the  days  of  the 
Great  Skirmish  this  was  practised  by  those  with 
names,  who  told  others  what  to  do.  This  large 
and  capable  body  included  all  the  preachers,  pub- 
licists, and  politicians  of  the  day,  and  in  many 
cases  there  is  even  evidence  that  they  would  have 
been  willing  to  practise  what  they  preached  if 
their  age  had  not  been  so  venerable  or  their  di- 
rective power  so  invaluable." 

"/n-valuable,"  murmured  the  Angel;  "has  that 
word  a  negative  signification?" 

''Not  in  all  cases,"  said  his  dragoman  with  a 
smile;  "there  were  men  whom  it  would  have  been 
difficult  to  replace,  though  not  many,  and  those 
perhaps  the  least  comparatively  moral.  In  this 
category,  too,  were  undoubtedly  the  persons 
known  as  conchies." 

"From  conch,  a  shell?"  asked  the  Angel. 

"Not  precisely,"  returned  his  dragoman;  "and 
yet  you  have  hit  it,  sir,  for  into  then  shells  they 
certainly  withdrew,  refusing  to  have  anything  to 
do  with  this  wicked  world.  Sufficient  unto  them 
was  the  voice  within.  They  were  not  well  treated 
by  an  unfeeling  populace." 

307 


GROTESQUES 

"This  is  interesting  to  me,"  said  the  Angel. 
"To  what  did  they  object?" 

"To  war,"  repHed  his  dragoman.  "  'What  is  it 
to  us,'  they  said,  '  that  there  should  be  barbarians 
like  these  Prussians,  who  override  the  laws  of 
justice  and  humanity?' — words,  sir,  very  much 
in  vogue  m  those  days.  'How  can  it  affect  our 
principles  if  these  rude  foreigners  have  not  our 
views,  and  are  prepared,  by  cutting  off  the  food 
supplies  of  this  island,  to  starve  us  into  submis- 
sion to  their  rule?  Rather  than  turn  a  deaf  ear 
to  the  voice  within  we  are  prepared  for  general 
starvation;  whether  we  are  prepared*  for  the 
starvation  of  our  individual  selves  we  cannot,  of 
course,  say  until  we  experience  it.  But  we  hope 
for  the  best,  and  believe  that  we  shall  go  through 
with  it  to  death,  in  the  undesired  company  of  all 
who  do  not  agree  with  us.'  And  it  is  certain,  sir, 
that  some  of  them  were  capable  of  this;  for  there 
is,  as  you  know,  a  type  of  man  who  will  die  rather 
than  admit  that  his  views  are  too  extreme  to  keep 
himself  and  his  fellow-men  alive." 

"How  entertaining!"  said  the  Angel.  "Do 
such  persons  still  exist?" 

"Oh!  yes,"  rephed  the  dragoman;  "and  al- 
ways will.  Nor  is  it,  in  my  opinion,  altogether  to 
the  disadvantage  of  mankind,  for  they  afford  a 
salutary  warning  to  the  human  species  not  to 

308 


GROTESQUES 

isolate  itself  in  fancy  from  the  realities  of  exist- 
ence and  extinguish  human  life  before  its  time 
has  come.  We  shall  now  consider  the  positirely 
moral.  At  the  time  of  the  Great  Skirmish  these 
were  such  as  took  no  sugar  in  their  tea  and  in- 
vested all  they  had  in  War  Stock  at  five  per  cent, 
without  waiting  for  what  were  called  Premium 
Bonds  to  be  issued.  They  were  a  large  and 
healthy  group,  more  immediately  concerned  with 
commerce  than  the  war.  But  the  largest  body  of 
all  were  the  negatively  moral.  These  were  they 
who  did  what  they  crudely  called  'their  bit/ 
which  I  may  tell  you,  sir,  was  often  very  bitter. 
I  myself  was  a  ship's  steward  at  the  time,  and 
frequently  swallowed  much  salt  water,  owing  to 
the  submarines.  But  I  was  not  to  be  deterred, 
and  would  sign  on  again  when  it  had  been  pumped 
out  of  me.  Our  morality  was  purely  negative,  if 
not  actually  low.  We  acted,  as  it  were,  from  in- 
stinct, and  often  wondered  at  the  sublime  sacri- 
fices which  were  being  made  by  our  betters. 
Most  of  us  were  killed  or  injured  in  one  way  or 
another;  but  a  blind  and  obstinate  mania  for  not 
giving  in  possessed  us.  We  were  a  simple  lot." 
The  dragoman  paused  and  fixed  his  eyes  on  the 
empty  hearth.  "  I  will  not  disguise  from  you,"  he 
added,  "that  we  were  fed-up  nearly  all  the  time; 
and  yet — we" 'couldn't  stop.     Odd,  was  it  not?" 

309 


GROTESQUES 

"I  wish  I  had  been  with  you/'  said  the  Angel, 
"for — to  use  that  word  without  which  you  Eng- 
Hsh  seem  unable  to  express  anything — ^you  were 
heroes." 

"Sir,"  said  his  dragoman-,  "you  flatter  us  by 
such  encomium.  We  were,  I  fear,  dismally  lack- 
ing in  commercial  spirit,  just  men  and  women  in 
the  street  having  neither  time  nor  inclination  to 
examine  our  conduct  and  motives,  nor  to  ques- 
tion or  direct  the  conduct  of  others.  Purely 
negative  beings,  with  perhaps  a  touch  of  human 
courage  and  human  kindliness  in  us.  All  this, 
however,  is  a  tale  of  long  ago.  You  can  now  ask 
me  any  questions,  sir,  before  I  pass  to  private 
morality." 

"You  alluded  to  courage  and  kindliness,"  said 
the  Angel:  "How  do  these  qualities  now  stand?" 

"The  quahty  of  courage,"  responded  his  drago- 
man, "received  a  set-back  in  men's  estimation  at 
the  time  of  the  Great  Skirmish,  from  which  it  has 
never  properly  recovered.  For  physical  courage 
was  then,  for  the  first  time,  perceived  to  be  most 
excessively  common;  it  is,  indeed,  probably  a 
mere  attribute  of  the  bony  chin,  especially  preva- 
lent in  the  English-speaking  races.  As  to  moral 
courage,  it  was  so  hunted  down  that  it  is  still 
somewhat  in  hiding.  Of  kindlinass  there  are,  as 
you  know,  two  sorts:  that  which  people  manifest 

310 


GROTESQUES 

towards  their  own  belongings;  and  that  which 
they  do  not  as  a  rule  manifest  towards  every  one 
else." 

''Since  we  attended  the  Divorce  Court,"  re- 
marked the  Angel  with  deliberation,  "I  have 
been  thinking.  And  I  fancy  no  one  can  be  really 
kind  unless  they  have  had  matrimonial  trouble, 
preferably  in  conflict  with  the  law." 

"A  new  thought  to  me,"  observed  his  drago- 
man attentively;  "and  yet  you  may  be  right,  for 
there  is  nothing  like  being  morally  outcast  to 
make  you  feel  the  intolerance  of  others.  But 
that  brings  us  to  private  morality." 

/'Quite!"  said  the  Angel,  with  relief.  "I  for- 
got to  ask  you  this  morning  how  the  ancient  cus- 
tom of  marriage  was  now  regarded  in  the  large?" 

"Not  indeed  as  a  sacrament,"  replied  his  drago- 
man; "such  a  view  was  becoming  rare  already  at 
the  time  of  the  Great  Skirmish.  Yet  the  notion 
might  have  been  preserved  but  for  the  opposition 
of  the  Pontifical  of  those  days  to  the  reform  of  the 
Divorce  Laws.  When  principle  opposes  common 
sense  too  long,  a  landshde  follows." 

"Of  what  nature,  then,  is  marriage  now?" 

"Purely  a  civil,  or  uncivil,  contract,  as  the  case 
may  be.  The  holy  state  of  judicial  separation, 
too,  has  long  been  unknown." 

"Ah !"  said  the  Angel,  "  that  was  the  custom  by 
311 


GROTESQUES 

which  the  man  became  a  monk  and  the  lady  a 
nun,  was  it  not?" 

"In  theory,  sir,"  repUed  his  dragoman,  "but  in 
practice  not  a  little  bit,  as  you  may  well  suppose. 
The  Pontifical,  however,  and  the  women,  old  and 
otherwise,  who  supported  them,  had  but  small  ex- 
perience of  life  to  go  on,  and  honestly  believed 
that  they  were  punishing  those  still-married  but 
erring  persons  who  were  thus  separated.  These, 
on  the  contrary,  almost  invariably  assumed  that 
they  were  justified  in  free  companionships,  nor 
were  they  particular  to  avoid  promiscuity !  So 
it  ever  is,  sir,  when  the  great  laws  of  Nature  are 
violated  in  deference  to  the  Higher  Doctrine." 

"Are  children  still  born  out  of  wedlock?"  asked 
the  Angel. 

"Yes,"  said  his  dragoman,  "but  no  longer  con- 
sidered responsible  for  the  past  conduct  of  their 
parents." 

"Society,  then,  is  more  humane?" 

"Well,  sir,  we  shall  not  see  the  Millennium  in 
that  respect  for  some  years  to  come.  Zoos  are 
still  permitted,  and  I  read  only  yesterday  a  letter 
from  a  Scottish  gentleman  pouring  scorn  on  the 
humane  proposal  that  prisoners  should  be  al- 
lowed to  see  their  wives  once  a  month  without 
bars  or  the  presence  of  a  third  party;  precisely  as 
if  we  still  hved  in  the  days  of  the  Great  Skirmish. 

312 


GROTESQUES 

Can  you  tell  me  why  it  is  that  such  letters  are  al- 
ways written  by  Scotsmen?" 

"Is  it  a  riddle?"  asked  the  Angel. 

"It  is  indeed,  sir." 

"Then  it  bores  me.  Speaking  generally,  are 
you  satisfied  with  current  virtue  now  that  it  is  a 
State  matter,  as  you  informed  me  yesterday?" 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,  sir,  I  do  not  judge  my 
neighbours;  sufficient  unto  myself  is  the  vice 
thereof.  But  one  thing  I  observe,  the  less  virtu- 
ous people  assume  themselves  to  be,  the  more 
virtuous  they  commonly  are.  Where  the  lime- 
light is  not,  the  flower  blooms.  Have  you  not 
frequently  noticed  that  they  who  day  by  day 
cheerfully  endure  most  unpleasant  things,  while 
helping  their  neighbours  at  the  expense  of  their 
own  time  and  goods,  are  often  rendered  lyrical  by 
receiving  a  sovereign  from  some  one  who  would 
never  miss  it,  and  are  ready  to  enthrone  him  in 
their  hearts  as  a  king  of  men  ?  The  truest  virtue, 
sir,  must  be  sought  among  the  lowly.  Sugar  and 
snow  may  be  seen  on  the  top,  but  for  the  salt  of 
the  earth  one  must  look  to  the  bottom." 

"I  believe  you,"  said  the  Angel.  "It  is  prob- 
ably harder  for  a  man  in  the  limelight  to  enter 
virtue  than  for  the  virtuous  to  enter  the  lime- 
light. Ha,  ha !  Is  the  good  old  custom  of  buying 
honour  still  preserved  ?  " 

313 


GROTESQUES 

"No,  sir;  honour  is  now  only  given  to  such  as 
make  themselves  too  noisy  to  be  endured,  and 
saddles  the  recipient  with  an  obhgation  to  pre- 
serve public  silence  for  a  period  not  exceeding 
three  years.  That  maximum  sentence  is  given 
for  a  dukedom.  It  is  reckoned  that  few  can  sur- 
vive so  fearful  a  term." 

'^  Concerning  the  morality  of  this  new  custom," 
said  the  Angel,  "I  feel  doubtful.  It  savours  of 
surrender  to  the  bully  and  the  braggart,  does  it 
not?" 

"Rather  to  the  bore,  sir;  not  necessarily  the 
same  thing.  But  whether  men  be  decorated  for 
making  themselves  useful,  or  troublesome,  the 
result  in  either  case  is  to  secure  a  comparative 
inertia,  which  has  ever  been  the  desideratum; 
for  you  must  surely  be  aware,  sir,  how  a  man's 
dignity  weighs  him  down." 

"Are  women  also  rewarded  in  this  way?" 

"Yes,  and  very  often;  for  although  their  dig- 
nity is  already  ample,  their  tongues  are  long,  and 
they  have  Httle  shame  and  no  nerves  in  the  mat- 
ter of  pubHc  speaking." 

"And  what  price  their  virtue?"  asked  the  An- 
gel. 

"There  is  some  change  since  the  days  of  the 
Great  Skirmish,"  responded  his  dragoman.  "  They 
do  not  now  so  readily  sell  it,  except  for  a  wedding 

314 


GROTESQUES 

ring;  and  many  marry  for  love.  Women,  indeed, 
are  often  deplorably  lacking  in  commercial  spirit; 
and  though  they  now  mix  in  commerce,  have  not 
yet  been  able  to  adapt  themselves.  Some  men 
even  go  so  far  as  to  think  that  their  participation 
in  active  Hfe  is  not  good  for  trade  and  keeps  the 
country  back." 

"They  are  a  curious  sex,"  said  the  Angel;  "I 
like  them,  but  they  make  too  much  fuss  about 
babies." 

"Ah !  sir,  there  is  the  great  flaw.  The  mother 
instinct — so  heedless  and  uncommercial!  They 
seem  to  love  the  things  just  for  their  own  sakes." 

"Yes,"  said  the  Angel,  "there's  no  future  in  it. 
Give  me  a  cigar." 

VIII 

"What,  then,  is  the  present  position  of  'the 
good'?"  asked  the  Angel  ^Ethereal,  taking  wing 
from  Watchester  Cathedrome  towards  the  City 
Tabernacle. 

"There  are  a  number  of  discordant  views,  sir," 
his  dragoman  whiffled  through  his  nose  in  the 
rushing  air;  "which  is  no  more  novel  in  this  year 
of  Peace  1947  than  it  was  when  you  were  here  in 
1910.  On  the  far  right  are  certain  exi;remists, 
who  believe  it  to  be  what  it  was — omnipotent,  but 

315 


GROTESQUES 

suffering  the  presence  of  'the  bad*  for  no  reason 
which  has  yet  been  ascertained;  omnipr^ent, 
though  presumably  absent  where  Hhe  bad'  is 
present;  mysterious,  though  perfectly  revealed; 
terrible,  though  loving;  eternal,  though  limited 
by  a  beginning  and  an  end.  They  are  not  numer- 
ous, but  all  stall-holders,  and  chiefly  character- 
ised by  an  almost  perfect  intolerance  of  those 
whose  views  do  not  coincide  with  their  own;  nor 
will  they  suffer  for  a  moment  any  examination 
into  the  nature  of  'the  good,'  which  they  hold  to 
be  established  for  all  time,  in  the  form  I  have 
stated,  by  persons  who  have  long  been  dead. 
They  are,  as  you  may  imagine,  somewhat  out  of 
touch  with  science,  such  as  it  is,  and  are  re- 
garded by  the  community  at  large  rather  with 
curiosity  than  anything  else." 

"The  t>^e  is  well  known  in  the  sky,"  said  the 
Angel.  "TeU  me:  Do  they  torture  those  who  do 
not  agree  with  them?" 

''Not  materially,"  responded  his  dragoman. 
"  Such  a  custom  was  extinct  even  before  the  days 
of  the  Great  Skirmish,  though  what  would  have 
happened  if  the  Patriotic  or  Prussian  Party  had 
been  able  to  keep  power  for  any  length  of  time 
we  cannot  tell.  As  it  is,  the  torture  they  apply 
is  purely  spiritual,  and  consists  in  looking  down 
their  noses  at  all  who  have  not  their  beUef  and 

316 


GROTESQUES 

calling  them  erratics.  But  it  would  be  a  mis- 
take to  underrate  their  power,  for  human  nature 
loves  the  Pontifical,  and  there  are  those  who  will 
follow  to  the  death  any  one  who  looks  down  his 
nose,  and  says:  'I  know!'  Moreover,  sir,  con- 
sider how  unsettling  a  question  'the  good'  is,  when 
you  come  to  think  about  it  and  how  unfatiguing 
the  faith  which  precludes  all  such  speculation.'* 

"That  is  so,"  said  the  Angel  thoughtfully. 

"The  right  centre,"  continued  his  dragoman, 
"is  occupied  by  the  small  yet  noisy  Fifth  Party. 
These  are  they  who  play  the  comet  and  tambou- 
rine, big  drum  and  concertina,  descendants  of  the 
Old  Prophet,  and  survivors  of  those  who,  follow- 
ing a  younger  prophet,  joiued  them  at  the  time 
of  the  Great  Skirmish.  In  a  form  ever  modify- 
ing with  scientific  discovery  they  hold  that  'the 
good'  is  a  superman,  bodiless  yet  bodily,  with  a 
beginning  but  without  an  end.  It  is  an  attrac- 
tive faith,  enabling  them  to  say  to  Nature:  '/e 
m^en  fiche  de  tout  cela.  My  big  brother  will  look 
after  me  Pom ! '  One  may  call  it  anthropomor- 
phia,  for  it  seems  especially  soothing  to  strong 
personalities.  Every  man  to  his  creed,  as  they 
say;  and  I  would  never  wish  to  throw  cold  water 
on  such  as  seek  to  find  'the  good'  by  closing  one 
eye  instead  of  two,  as  is  done  by  the  extremists 
on  the  right." 

317 


GROTESQUES 

"You  are  tolerant/'  said  the  Angel. 

"Sir/'  said  his  dragoman,  "as  one  gets  older, 
one  perceives  more  and  more  how  impossible  it 
is  for  man  not  to  regard  himself  as  the  cause  of 
the  universe,  and  for  certain  individual  men  not 
to  beheve  themselves  the  centre  of  the  cause. 
For  such  to  start  a  new  beUef  is  a  biological  neces- 
sity, and  should  by  no  means  be  discouraged.  It 
is  a  safety-valve — ^the  form  of  passion  which  the 
fires  of  youth  take  in  men  after  the  age  of  fifty, 
as  one  may  judge  by  the  case  of  the  prophet 
Tolstoy  and  other  great  ones.  But  to  resume:  In 
the  centre,  of  course,  are  situated  the  enormous 
majority  of  the  community,  whose  view  is  that 
they  have  no  view  of  what  'the  good'  is." 

"None?"  repeated  the  Angel  iEthereal,  some- 
what struck. 

"Not  the  faintest,"  answered  his  dragoman. 
"These  are  the  only  true  mystics;  for  what  is  a 
mystic  if  not  one  with  an  impenetrable  behef  in 
the  mystery  of  his  own  existence?  This  group 
embraces  the  great  bulk  of  the  Laborious.  It  is 
true  that  many  of  them  will  repeat  what  is  told 
them  of  'the  good'  as  if  it  were  their  own  view, 
without  compunction,  but  this  is  no  more  than 
the  majority  of  persons  have  done  from  the  be- 
ginning of  time." 

"Quite,"  admitted  the  Angel;  "I  have  observed 
318 


GROTESQUES 

that  phenomenon  in  the  course  of  my  travels.  We 
will  not  waste  words  on  them." 

"Ah,  sir!"  retorted  his  dragoman,  "there  is 
more  wisdom  in  these  persons  than  you  imagine. 
For,  consider  what  would  be  the  fate  of  their 
brains  if  they  attempted  to  think  for  themselves. 
Moreover,  as  you  know,  all  definite  views  about 
'the  good'  are  very  wearing,  and  it  is  better,  so 
this  great  majority  thinks,  to  let  sleeping  dogs 
lie  than  to  have  them  barking  in  its  head.  But  I 
will  tell  you  something,"  the  dragoman  added: 
"These  innumerable  persons  have  a  secret  be- 
lief of  their  own,  old  as  the  Greeks,  that  good  fel- 
lowship is  all  that  matters.  And,  in  my  opinion, 
taking  'the  good'  in  its  limited  sense,  it  is  an  ad- 
mirable creed." 

"Oh!  cut  on!"  said  the  Angel. 

"My  mistake,  sir!"  said  his  dragoman.  "On 
the  left  centre  are  grouped  that  increasing  section 
whose  view  is  that  since  eveiything  is  very  bad, 
'the  good'  is  ultimate  extinction — 'Peace,  per- 
fect peace,'  as  the  poet  says.  You  will  recollect 
the  old  tag:  'To  be  or  not  to  be.'  These  are  they 
who  have  answered  that  question  in  the  nega- 
tive; pessimists  masquerading  to  an  unsuspecting 
public  as  optimists.  They  are  no  doubt  de- 
scendants of  such  as  used  to  be  called  'Theoso- 
phians,'  a  sect  which  presupposed  everything  and 

319 


GROTESQUES 

then  desired  to  be  annihilated;  or,  again,  of  the 
Christian  Scientites,  who  simply  could  not  bear 
things  as  they  were,  so  set  themselves  to  think 
they  were  not,  with  some  limited  amount  of  suc- 
cess, if  I  remember  rightly.  I  recall  to  mind  the 
case  of  a  lady  who  lost  her  virtue,  and  recovered 
it  by  dint  of  remembering  that  she  had  no 
body." 

"Curious!"  said  the  Angel.  "I  should  Hke  to 
question  her;  let  me  have  her  address  after  the 
lecture.  Does  the  theory  of  reincarnation  still 
obtain?" 

"I  do  not  wonder,  sir,  that  you  are  interested 
in  the  point,  for  believers  in  that  doctrine  are 
compelled,  by  the  old  and  awkward  rule  that 
*Two  and  two  make  four,'  to  draw  on  other 
spheres  for  the  reincarnation  of  their  spirits." 

"I  do  not  follow,"  said  the  Angel. 

"It  is  simple,  however,"  answered  his  drago- 
man, "for  at  one  time  on  earth,  as  is  admitted, 
there  was  no  life.  The  first  incarnation,  therefore 
— an  amoeba,  we  used  to  be  told — enclosed  a 
spirit,  possibly  from  above.  It  may,  indeed,  have 
been  yours,  sir.  Again,  at  some  time  on  this 
earth,  as  is  admitted,  there  will  again  be  no  life; 
the  last  spirit  will  therefore  flit  to  an  incarnation, 
possibly  below;  and  again,  sir,  who  knows,  it  may 
be  yours." 

320 


GROTESQUES 

"I  cannot  jest  on  such  a  subject,"  said  the  An- 
gel, with  a  sneeze. 

"No  offence,"  murmured  his  dragoman.  "The 
last  group,  on  the  far  left,  to  which  indeed  I  my- 
self am  not  altogether  unaffiliated,  is  composed 
of  a  small  number  of  extremists,  who  hold  that 
'the  good'  is  things  as  they  are — ^pardon  the  in- 
evitable flaw  in  grammar.  They  consider  that 
what  is  now  has  always  been,  and  will  always  be; 
that  things  do  but  swell  and  contract  and  swell 
again,  and  so  on  for  ever  and  ever;  and  that, 
since  they  could  not  swell  if  they  did  not  contract, 
since  without  the  black  there  could  not  be  the 
white,  nor  pleasure  without  pain,  nor  virtue  )\ith- 
out  vice,  nor  criminals  without  judges;  even  con- 
traction, or  the  black,  or  pain,  or  vice,  or  judges, 
are  not  'the  bad,'  but  only  negatives;  and  that 
all  is  for  the  best  in  the  best  of  all  possible'worlds. 
They  are  Voltairean  optimists  masquerading  to 
an  unsuspecting  population  as  pessimists.  '  Eter- 
nal Variation'  is  their  motto." 

"I  gather,"  said  the  Angel,  "that  these  think 
there  is  no  purpose  in  existence?" 

"Rather,  sir,  that  existence  is  the  purpose. 
For,  if  you  consider,  any  other  conception  of 
purpose  implies  fulfilment,  or  an  end,  which  they 
do  not  admit,  just  as  they  do  not  admit  a  be- 
ginning." 

321 


GROTESQUES 

"How  logical !"  said  the  Angel.  "It  makes  me 
dizzy !  You  have  renounced  the  idea  of  climb- 
ing, then?" 

"Not  so,"  responded  his  dragoman.  "We 
climb  to  the  top  of  the  pole,  slide  imperceptibly 
down,  and  begin  over  again;  but  since  we  never 
really  know  whether  we  are  climbing  or  sHding, 
this  does  not  depress  us." 

"To  believe  that  this  goes  on  for  ever  is  fu- 
tile," said  the  Angel. 

"So  we  are  told,"  replied  his  dragoman,  with- 
out emotion.  "TFe  think,  however,  that  the  truth 
is  with  us,  in  spite  of  jesting  Pilate." 

"It  is  not  for  me,"  said  the  Angel,  with  dignity 
"to  argue  with  my  dragoman." 

"  No,  sir,  for  it  is  always  necessary  to  beware  of 
the  open  mmd.  I  myself  find  it  very  difficult  to 
beheve  the  same  thing  every  day.  And  the  fact 
is  that  whatever  you  believe  will  probably  not 
alter  the  truth,  which  may  be  said  to  have  a 
certain  mysterious  immutabihty,  considering  the 
number  of  efforts  men  have  made  to  change  it 
from  time  to  time.  We  are  now,  however,  just 
above  the  City  Tabernacle,  and  if  you  will  close 
your  wings  we  shall  penetrate  it  through  the 
clap-trap-door  which  enables  its  preachers  now 
and  then  to  ascend  to  higher  spheres." 

"Stay !"  said  the  Angel;  "let  me  float  a  minute 
322 


GROTESQUES 

while  I  suck  a  peppermint,  for  the  audiences  in 
these  places  often  have  colds."  And  with  that 
delicious  aroma  clinging  to  them  they  made  their 
entry  through  a  strait  gate  in  the  roof  and  took 
their  seats  in  the  front  row,  below  a  tall  prophet 
in  eyeglasses,  who  was  discoursing  on  the  stars. 
The  Angel  slept  heavily. 

''You  have  lost  a  good  thing,  sir,"  said  his 
dragoman  reproachfully,  when  they  left  the 
Tabernacle. 

"In  my  opinion,"  the  Angel  playfully  re- 
sponded, "I  won  a  better,  for  I  went  nap.  What 
can  a  mortal  know  about  the  stars?" 

"Believe  me,"  answered  his  dragoman,  "the 
subject  is  not  more  abstruse  than  is  generally 
chosen." 

"If  he  had  taken  religion  I  should  have  lis- 
tened with  pleasure,"  said  the  Angel. 

"Oh!  sir,  but  in  these  days  such  a  subject  is 
unknown  in  a  place  of  worship.  Religion  is  now 
exclusively  a  State  affair.  The  change  began 
with  discipline  and  the  Education  Bill  in  1918, 
and  has  gradually  crystallised  ever  since.  It  is 
true  that  individual  extremists  on  the  right  make 
continual  endeavours  to  encroach  on  the  func- 
tions of  the  State,  but  they  preach  to  empty 
houses." 

"And  the  Deity?"  said  the  Angel:  "You  have 
323 


GROTESQUES 
not  once  mentioned  Him.    It  has  struck  me  as 


curious." 


"Belief  in  the  Deity,"  responded  his  dragoman, 
"perished  shortly  after  the  Great  Skirmish,  dur- 
ing which  there  was  too  active  and  varied  an 
effort  to  revive  it.  Action,  as  you  know,  sir,  al- 
ways brings  reaction,  and  it  must  be  said  that  the 
spiritual  propaganda  of  those  days  was  so  grossly 
tinged  with  the  commercial  spirit  that  it  came 
under  the  head  of  profiteering  and  earned  for 
itself  a  certain  abhorrence.  For  no  sooner  had 
the  fears  and  griefs  brought  by  the  Great  Skir- 
mish faded  from  men's  spirits  than  they  perceived 
that  their  new  impetus  towards  the  Deity  had 
been  directed  purely  by  the  longing  for  protec- 
tion, solace,  comfort,  and  reward,  and  not  by  any 
real  desire  for  'the  good'  in  itself.  It  was  this 
truth,  together  with  the  appropriation  of  the 
word  by  Emperors,  and  the  expansion  of  our 
towns,  a  process  ever  destructive  of  traditions, 
which  brought  about  extinction  of  belief  in  His 
existence." 

"It  was  a  large  order,"  said  the  Angel. 

"It  was  more  a  change  of  nomenclature,"  re- 
pHed  his  dragoman.  "The  ruling  motive  for  be- 
lief in  *  the  good '  is  still  the  hope  of  getting  some- 
thing out  of  it — the  commercial  spirit  is  innate." 

"Ah !"  said  the  Angel,  absently.  "  Can  we  have 
324 


GROTESQUES 

another  lunch  now?    I  could  do  with  a  slice  of 
beef." 

"An  admirable  idea,  sir,"  replied  his  drago- 
man; "we  will  have  it  in  the  White  City." 

IX 

"What  in  your  opinion  is  the  nature  of  hap- 
piness?" asked  the  Angel  ^Ethereal,  as  he  fin- 
ished his  second  bottle  of  Bass,  in  the  grounds  of 
the  White  City.  The  dragoman  regarded  his 
angel  with  one  eye. 

"The  question  is  not  simple,  sir,  though  often 
made  the  subject  of  symposiums  in  the  more  in- 
tellectual journals.  Even  now,  in  the  middle  of 
the  twentieth  century,  some  still  hold  that  it  is  a 
by-product  of  fresh  air  and  good  liquor.  The 
Old  and  Merrie  England  indubitably  procured 
it  from  those  elements.  Some,  again,  imagine  it 
to  follow  from  high  thinking  and  low  living,  while 
no  mean  number  believe  that  it  depends  on 
women." 

"Their  absence  or  their  presence?"  asked  the 
Angel,  with  interest. 

"Some  this  and  others  that.  But  for  my  part, 
it  is  not  altogether  the  outcome  of  these  causes." 

"Is  this  now  a  happy  land?" 

"Sir,"  returned  his  dragoman,  "all  things 
earthly  are  comparative." 

325 


GROTESQUES 

"Get  on  with  it,"  said  the  Angel. 

"I  will  comply,"  responded  his  dragoman  re- 
proachfully, "if  you  will  permit  me  first  to  draw 
your  third  cork.  And  let  me  say  in  passing  that 
even  your  present  happiness  is  comparative,  or 
possibly  superlative,  as  you  will  know  when  you 
have  finished  this  last  bottle.  It  may  or  may  not 
be  greater;  we  shall  see." 

"We  shall,"  said  the  Angel,  resolutely. 

"You  ask  me  whether  this  land  is  happy;  but 
must  we  not  first  decide  what  happiness  is  ?  And 
how  difficult  this  will  be  you  shall  soon  discover. 
For  example,  in  the  early  days  of  the  Great  Skir- 
mish, happiness  was  reputed  non-existent;  every 
family  was  plunged  into  anxiety  or  mourning; 
and,  though  this  to  my  own  knowledge  was  not 
the  case,  such  as  were  not  pretended  to  be.  Yet, 
strange  as  it  may  appear,  the  shrewd  obser\^er  of 
those  days  was  unable  to  remark  any  indication 
of  added  gloom.  Certain  creature  comforts,  no 
doubt,  were  scarce,  but  there  was  no  lack  of 
spiritual  comfort,  which  high  minds  have  ever 
associated  with  happiness;  nor  do  I  here  allude  to 
liquor.  What,  then,  was  the  nature  of  this  spirit- 
ual comfort,  you  will  certainly  be  asking.  I  will 
tell  you,  and  in  seven  words:  People  forgot  them- 
selves and  remembered  other  people.  Until  those 
days  it  had  never  been  realised  what  a  lot  of 

326 


GROTESQUES 

medical  men  could  be  spared  from  the  civil 
population;  what  a  number  of  clergymen,  law- 
yers, stockbrokers,  artists,  writers,  politicians,  and 
other  persons,  whose  work  in  life  is  to  cause  peo- 
ple to  think  about  themselves,  never  would  be 
missed.  Invalids  knitted  socks  and  forgot  to  be 
unwell;  old  gentlemen  read  the  papers  and  forgot 
to  talk  about  their  food;  people  travelled  in  trains 
and  forgot  not  to  fall  into  conversation  with  each 
other;  merchants  became  special  constables  and 
forgot  to  differ  about  property;  the  House  of 
Lords  remembered  its  dignity  and  forgot  its  im- 
pudence; the  House  of  Commons  almost  forgot 
to  chatter.  The  case  of  the  working  man  was  the 
most  striking  of  all — he  forgot  he  was  the  working 
man.  The  very  dogs  forgot  themselves,  though 
that,  to  be  sure,  was  no  novelty,  as  the  Irish 
writer  demonstrated  in  his  terrific  outburst:  'On 
my  doorstep.'  But  time  went  on,  and  hens  in 
their  turn  forgot  to  lay,  ships  to  return  to  port, 
cows  to  give  enough  milk,  and  Governments  to 
look  ahead,  till  the  first  flush  of  self-forgetfuhiess 
which  had  dyed  peoples'  cheeks " 

"  Died  on  them,"  put  in  the  Angel,  with  a  quiet 
smile. 

"You  take  my  meaning,  sir,"  said  his  drago- 
man, "though  I  should  not  have  worded  it  so 
happily.    But  certainly  the  return  to  self  began, 

327 


GROTESQUES 

and  people  used  to  think:  'This  war  is  not  so 
bloody  as  I  thought,  for  I  am  getting  better 
money  than  I  ever  did,  and  the  longer  it  lasts  the 
more  I  shall  get,  and  for  the  sake  of  this  I  am 
prepared  to  endure  much.'  The  saying  "Beef 
and  beer,  for  soon  you  must  put  up  the  shutters," 
became  the  motto  of  all  classes.  'If  I  am  to  be 
shot,  drowned,  bombed,  ruined,  or  starved  to- 
morrow,' they  said,  'I  had  better  eat,  drink, 
marry,  and  buy  jewelry  to-day.'  And  so  they 
did,  in  spite  of  the  dreadful  efforts  of  one  bishop 
and  two  gentlemen  who  presided  over  the  im- 
portant question  of  food.  They  did  not,  it  is  true, 
relax  their  manual  efforts  to  accomplish  the  de- 
feat of  their  enemies,  or  'win  the  war,'  as  it  was 
somewhat  loosely  called;  but  they  no  longer 
worked  with  their  spirits,  which,  with  a  few  ex- 
ceptions, went  to  sleep.  For,  sir,  the  spirit,  like 
the  body,  demands  regular  repose,  and  in  my 
opinion  is  usually  the  first  of  the  two  to  snore. 
Before  the  Great  Skirmish  came  at  last  to  its 
appointed  end  the  snoring  from  spirits  in  this 
country  might  have  been  heard  in  the  moon. 
People  thought  of  little  but  money,  revenge,  and 
what  they  could  get  to  eat,  though  the  word 
'sacrifice'  was  so  accustomed  to  their  lips  that 
they  could  no  more  get  it  off  them  than  the  other 
forms  of  lip-salve,  increasingly  in  vogue.    They 

328 


GROTESQUES 

became  very  merry.  And  the  question  I  would 
raise  is  this:  By  which  of  these  two  standards 
shall  we  assess  the  word  '  happiness '  ?  Were  these 
people  happy  when  they  mourned  and  thought 
not  of  self;  or  when  they  merried  and  thought  of 
self  all  the  time?" 

"By  the  first  standard,"  replied  the  Angel,  with 
kindling  eyes.  "Happiness  is  undoubtedly  no- 
bility." 

"Not  so  fast,  sir,"  replied  his  dragoman;  "for  I 
have  frequently  met  with  nobility  in  distress; 
and,  indeed,  the  more  exalted  and  refined  the 
mind,  the  unhappier  is  frequently  the  owner 
thereof,  for  to  him  are  visible  a  thousand  cruelties 
and  mean  injustices  which  lower  natures  do  not 
perceive." 

"Hold!"  exclaimed  the  Angel:  "This  is  blas- 
phemy against  Olympus,  'The  Spectator/  and 
other  High-Brows." 

"Sir,"  repHed  his  dragoman  gravely,  "I  am 
not  one  of  those  who  accept  gilded  doctrines  with- 
out examination;  I  read  in  the  Book  of  Life  rather 
than  in  the  million  tomes  wTitten  by  men  to  get 
away  from  their  own  unhappiness." 

"I  perceive,"  said  the  Angel,  with  a  shrewd 
glance,  "that  you  have  something  up  your  sleeve. 
Shake  it  out!" 

"My  conclusion  is  this,  sir,"  returned  his 
329 


GROTESQUES 

dragoman,  well  pleased:  "Man  is  only  happy 
when  he  is  living  at  a  certain  pressure  of  life  to 
the  square  inch;  in  other  words,  when  he  is  so 
absorbed  in  what  he  is  doing,  making,  saying, 
thinking,  or  dreaming,  that  he  has  lost  self-con- 
sciousness. If  there  be  upon  him  any  ill — such  as 
toothache  or  moody  meditation — so  poignant  as 
to  prevent  him  losing  himself  in  the  interest  of 
the  moment,  then  he  is  not  happy.  Nor  must  he 
merely  think  himseK  absorbed,  but  actually  be 
so,  as  are  two  lovers  sitting  under  one  umbrella, 
or  he  who  is  just  making  a  couplet  rhyme." 

"Would  you  say,  then,"  insinuated  the  Angel, 
"that  a  man  is  happy  when  he  meets  a  mad  bull 
in  a  narrow  lane?  For  there  will  surely  be  much 
pressure  of  life  to  the  square  inch." 

"It  does  not  follow,"  responded  his  dragoman; 
"for  at  such  moments  one  is  prone  to  stand  apart, 
pitying  himself  and  reflecting  on  the  unevenness 
of  fortune.  But  if  he  collects  himself  and  meets 
the  occasion  with  spirit  he  will  enjoy  it  until, 
while  sailing  over  the  hedge,  he  has  leisure  to  re- 
flect once  more.  It  is  clear  to  me,"  he  proceeded, 
"that  the  fruit  of  the  tree  of  knowledge  in  the 
old  fable  was  not,  as  has  hitherto  been  supposed 
by  a  puritanical  people,  the  mere  knowledge  of 
sex,  but  symbolised  rather  general  self-conscious- 
ness; for  I  have  little  doubt  that  Adam  and  Eve 

330 


GROTESQUES 

sat  together  under  one  umbrella  long  before  they 
discovered  they  had  no  clothes  on.  Not  until 
they  became  self-conscious  about  things  at  large 
did  they  become  unhappy." 

"Love  is  commonly  reputed  by  some,  and  power 
by  others,  to  be  the  keys  of  happiness,"  said  the 
Angel,  regardless  of  his  grammar. 

"Duds,"  broke  in  his  dragoman.  "For  love 
and  power  are  only  two  of  the  various  paths  to 
absorption,  or  unconsciousness  of  self;  mere  meth- 
ods by  which  men  of  differing  natures  succeed  in 
losing  their  self -consciousness,  for  he  who,  hke 
Saint  Francis,  loves  all  creation,  has  no  time  to  be 
conscious  of  lo^'ing  himself,  and  he  who  rattles 
the  sword  and  rules  like  BiU  Kaser,  has  no  time 
to  be  conscious  that  he  is  not  ruhng  himself.  I 
do  not  deny  that  such  men  may  be  happy,  but 
not  because  of  the  love  or  the  power.  No,  it  is 
because  they  are  loving  or  ruling  with  such  in- 
tensity that  they  forget  themselves  in  doing 
it." 

"There  is  much  in  what  }'ou  say,"  said  the 
.\ngel  thoughtfully.  "How  do  you  apply  it  to 
the  times  and  land  in  which  you  live?" 

"Sir,"  his  cb'agoman  responded,  "the  English- 
man never  has  been,  and  is  not  now,  by  any 
means  so  unhappy  as  he  looks,  for,  where  you  see 
a  furrow  in  the  brow,  or  a  mouth  a  little  open,  it 

331 


GROTESQUES 

portends  absorption  rather  than  thoughtfulness — 
unless,  indeed,  it  means  adenoids — and  is  the 
mark  of  a  naturally  self-forgetful  nature;  nor 
should  you  suppose  that  poverty  and  dirt  which 
abound,  as  you  see,  even  under  the  sway  of  the 
Laborious,  is  necessarily  deterrent  to  the  power 
of  living  in  the  moment;  it  may  even  be  a  symp- 
tom of  that  habit.  The  unhappy  are  more  fre- 
quently the  clean  and  leisured,  especially  in  times 
of  peace,  when  they  have  little  to  do  save  sit 
under  mulberry  trees,  invest  money;  pay  their 
taxes,  wash,  fly,  and  think  about  themselves. 
Nevertheless,  many  of  the  Laborious  also  live  at 
half-cock,  and  cannot  be  said  to  have  lost  con- 
sciousness of  self." 

"  Then  democracy  is  not  synonymous  with  hap- 
piness?" asked  the  Angel. 

"Dear  sir,"  rephed  his  dragoman,  "I  know  they 
said  so  at  the  time  of  the  Great  Skirmish.  But 
they  said  so  much  that  one  little  one  like  that 
hardly  counted.  I  will  let  you  into  a  secret.  We 
have  not  yet  achieved  democracy,  either  here  or 
anywhere  else.  The  old  American  saying  about 
it  is  all  very  well,  but  since  not  one  man  in  ten 
has  any  real  opinion  of  his  own  on  any  subject 
on  which  he  votes,  he  cannot,  with  the  best  will 
in  the  world,  put  it  on  record.  Not  until  he 
learns  to  have  and  record  his  own   real  opin- 

332 


GROTESQUES 

ion  will  he  truly  govern  himself  for  himself, 
which  is,  as  you  know,  the  test  of  true  democ- 
racy." 

" I  am  getting  fuddled,"  said  the  Angel.  "What 
is  it  you  want  to  make  you  happy?" 

His  dragoman  sat  up:  "If  I  am  right,"  he 
purred,  "in  my  view  that  happiness  is  absorp- 
tion, our  problem  is  to  direct  men's  minds  to  ab- 
sorption in  right  and  pleasant  things.  An  Amer- 
ican making  a  corner  in  wheat  is  absorbed  and 
no  doubt  happy,  yet  he  is  an  enemy  of  mankind, 
for  his  activity  is  destructive.  We  should  seek 
to  give  our  minds  to  creation,  to  activities  good 
for  others  as  well  as  for  ourselves,  to  simplicity, 
pride  in  work,  and  forgetfulness  of  self  in  every 
walk  of  life.  We  should  do  things  for  the  sheer 
pleasure  of  doing  them,  and  not  for  what  they 
may  or  may  not  be  going  to  bring  us  in,  and  be 
taught  always  to  give  our  whole  minds  to  it;  in 
this  w^ay  only  will  the  edge  of  our  appetite  for 
existence  remain  as  keen  as  a  razor  which  is 
stropped  every  morning  by  one  who  knows  how. 
On  the  negative  side  we  should  be  brought  up  to 
be  kind,  to  be  clean,  to  be  moderate,  and  to  love 
good  music,  exercise,  and  fresh  air." 

"That  sounds  a  bit  of  all  right,"  said  the  Angel. 
"What  measures  are  being  taken  in  these  direc- 
tions?" 

333 


GROTESQUES 

"It  has  been  my  habit,  sir,  to  study  the  Edu- 
cation Acts  of  my  country  ever  since  that  which 
was  passed  at  the  time  of  the  Great  Skirmish; 
but,  with  the  exception  of  exercise,  I  have  not  as 
3'et  been  able  to  find  any  direct  allusion  to  these 
matters.  Nor  is  this  surprising  when  you  coji- 
sider  that  education  is  popularly  supposed  to  be, 
not  for  the  acquisition  of  happiness,  but  for  the 
good  of  trade  or  the  promotion  of  acute  self-con- 
sciousness through  what  we  know  as  culture.  If 
by  any  chance  there  should  arise  a  President  of 
Education  so  enlightened  as  to  share  my  views, 
it  would  be  impossible  for  him  to  mention  the  fact 
for  fear  of  being  sent  to  Colney  Hatch." 

''In  that  case,"  asked  the  Angel,  "you  do  not 
believe  in  the  progress  of  your  country-?" 

"Sir,"  his  dragoman  replied  earnestly,  "you 
have  seen  this  land  for  yourself  and  have  heard 
from  me  some  account  of  its  growth  from  the 
days  when  you  were  last  on  earth,  shortly  before 
the  Great  Skirmish;  it  will  not  have  escaped  your 
eagle  eye  that  this  considerable  event  has  had 
some  influence  in  accelerating  the  course  of  its 
progression;  and  you  will  have  noticed  how,  not- 
withstanding the  most  strenuous  intentions  at 
the  close  of  that  tragedy,  we  have  yielded  to  cir- 
cumstance and  in  everj^  direction  followed  the  line 
of  least  resistance." 

334 


GROTESQUES 

"I  have  a  certain  sympathy  with  that/'  said 
the  Angel,  with  a  yawn;  "it  is  so  much  easier." 

"So  we  have  found;  and  our  country  has  got 
along,  perhaps,  as  well  as  one  could  have  ex- 
pected, considering  what  it  has  had  to  contend 
with:  pressure  of  debt;  primrose  paths;  pelf; 
party;  patrio-Prussianism ;  the  people;  pimdits; 
Puritans;  proctors;  property;  philosophers;  the 
Pontifical;  and  progress.  I  will  not  disguise  from 
you,  however,  that  we  are  far  from  perfection; 
and  it  may  be  that  on  your  next  visit,  thirty- 
seven  years  hence,  we  shall  be  further.  For, 
however  it  may  be  with  angels,  sir,  with  men 
things  do  not  stand  still;  and,  as  I  have  tried  to 
make  clear  to  you,  in  order  to  advance  in  body 
and  spirit,  it  is  necessary'  to  be  mastere  of  your 
environment  and  discoveries  instead  of  letting 
them  be  masters  of  you.  Wealthy  again  we  may 
be;  healthy  and  happy  we  are  not,  as  yet." 

"I  have  finished  my  beer,"  said  the  Angel 
^Ethereal,  with  finality,  "and  am  ready  to  rise. 
You  have  nothmg  to  drink !  Let  me  give  you  a 
testimonial  instead!"  Pulling  a  quill  from  his 
wing,  he  dipped  it  in  the  mustard  and  WTote:  "A 
Dry  Dog — No  Good  For  Trade"  on  his  drago- 
man's white  hat.  "I  shall  now  leave  the  earth," 
he  added. 

"I  am  pleased  to  hear  it,"  said  his  dragoman, 
335 


GROTESQUES 

"for  I  fancy  that  the  longer  you  stay  the  more 
vulgar  you  will  become.  I  have  noticed  it  grow- 
ing on  you,  sir,  just  as  it  does  on  us." 

The  Angel  smiled.  "Meet  me  by  sunlight 
alone,"  he  said,  "under  the  left-hand  lion  in 
Trafalgar  Square  at  this  hour  of  this  day,  in  1984. 
Remember  me  to  the  w^aiter,  will  you  ?  So  long ! " 
And,  without  pausing  for  a  reply,  he  spread  his 
wings,  and  soared  away. 

"L'homme  moyen  sensuel!  Sic  itur  ad  astral  ^^ 
murmured  his  dragoman  enigmatically,  and,  lift- 
ing his  eyes,  he  followed  the  Angel's  flight  into 
the  empyrean. 

1917-18. 


336 


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